As He Breaks
by Mirrordance
Summary: Sam ran to Dean and screamed for help, screamed and cried right from the deepest parts of him, as if those who could hear could fix everything of his brother, body and soul. Tag to the irresistible 4.16.
1. Chapter 1

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**As He Breaks**

Summary:Sam ran to Dean and screamed for help, screamed and cried right from the deepest parts of him, as if those who could hear could fix everything of his brother, body and soul. Tag to the irresistible 4.16.

**Hi gang**!

First off, lots of thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewed _Steps Behind_. I truly appreciate that you went along with me on that one... it was hard to write but as always, you fired me up and it somehow reached "The End," haha :)

I previewed several fics-in-progress in my standard author's Afterword of that story, but man... I saw _On the Head of a Pin_ and was so bowled over I could not help but write about it. So all projects have been at a standstill since, and I figured I might as well just get this out of my system and then move on to my planned projects _Open, Shut_ and _Heaven and Earth_ :)

Anyway, I hope this fic turns out to be worth temporarily setting the other projects aside for. More than anything though, I hope it's worthy of the mind-blowing episode it tags to. Let me know what you think if you can; c&c's are always welcome, and encouraging! :)

Without further ado, _As He Breaks_.

* * *

**As He Breaks**

* * *

2009

* * *

There was a time in Sam's life when he would walk into a room and the first thing he would see was his older brother.

Dean Winchester prided himself with being smooth, discreet, but he was far more helplessly noticeable than he himself probably knew. Some people had this... this _light_ that had a room almost freezing, just arrested by their very entrance. Dean was not like that. He had far more character than blinding white; he was shadows, facets and planes and contours. He was far more engaging than arresting, less of a spectacle and more of a mystery. A room did not stand still whenever he entered, it came _alive_. It wasn't light, what he had. It was a black hole, sucking in the energy of the room, making things move faster around it. _Kinetic_.

Even unconscious, there was something very captivating about Dean. Maybe because the stillness was such a contrast to his usual self. Or maybe that was just Sam being the starry-eyed kid brother, attention always helplessly ensnared by the older one.

Anywhere they were, Sam would spot Dean right off the bat – awake or not – and just blindly come running toward him. Sam had gone into basements, ignoring rawhead dangers he just somehow assumed were probably already taken care of, and run in blind toward the sight of his brother's unconscious form. He'd gone into warehouses, not thinking of anything about the job or _djinns-_at-large, the world converging around the sight of his older brother strung up by the wrists. He'd turned his back on a demonic adversary in Cold Oak upon the realization that his brother had found him, and then summarily got himself killed.

These hunter's memories were just a slice of the time in Sam's life when Dean was in a room and he paid attention to absolutely nothing else but his older brother. When he was a little kid, it was Dean picking him up from school, standing a head taller than everyone else. Or at graduation in a theater-full of people, his older brother watching him with that slick little grin, like he knew _damn well _Sam's achievements had a lot to do with him. Dean was _the _face in a sea of faces. Even in quiet nights in the motel rooms that passed for their transient homes, it felt different whenever Dean was awake, even if he wasn't really doing anything.

It was the thing that was most changed about his brother since he came back from Hell. _Gone_ was that absorbing presence.

Acid-trip personality had turned into dull, tarnished, _damaged_ black and white. His eyes were clouded, distant and weary, his face drawn, his shoulders slumped in constant, unrelenting burden. Swagger had turned to trudging, humor was an ill-fitting mask, and the guise of strength was a parody of its old version, the ill-thought-of b-movie sequel to the classic great.

And so it was that it was Dean on the ground in that dank warehouse who had captured Sam's attention last. Demon first, then angel and then Dean. If there was anyone else in that damn room aside from those three, Sam might have spotted them before he spotted Dean.

He had stormed in there initially intending a rescue/intervention. Sam had instead, promptly dispatched the demon first, looked triumphantly at an injured angel second, and then finally, _finally_, turned to his unconscious, _dying_ brother lying on the ground _last_.

He always used to see Dean first, before anything else in a room. _Always_. Even at the threat of danger and death, it had always been Dean in a room first... but times have changed, apparently, _painfully_. Dean had changed, become faded, less noticeable. Sam had changed too, became blinded by his anger and fear, became less attentive. One faded, the other blind, and so they both maximized the distance that now spanned between them.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, skidding to his knees next to his brother's unmoving form. Dean was lying on his side on the floor, where the most intricate devil's trap Sam had ever seen in his life was scrawled, and, he noted quickly, damaged. He assessed the situation even as he berated himself for paying attention to anything other than his brother.

Dean looked severely beaten, his face a mess of blood and swelling and discoloration. Sam pressed fingers to his brother's throat and felt a sickening sort of _give_ to the skin, like something was broken inside. He gulped and swallowed down cold, deep panic, finding marginal relief in the thready pulse beneath the hotly swollen, bruised flesh.

"Dean," he said, urgently, hand against his brother's cold, _cold _cheek, "Dean, hey."

He gently lifted his brother's eyelids and noted a concussion from the irregular pupils, and the far more fearful, tiny splotches of red on the whites of his brother's eyes, and around his eyelids.

The story rapidly unfolding in Sam's mind was becoming darker and darker and darker. The desire to _throttle_ Alistair for what he had done to Dean was overpowering, rage hot and invigorating as it coursed through veins, even as he grounded himself with _Dean _and _now_ and _help_ and _anger and madness later_. There would be time for vengeance later. Dean would die if he waited any longer.

Sam pressed a hand against Dean's chest and felt the brutally constrained rise and fall of it, just dead air going nowhere. He leaned against his brother's face, felt rattling, profoundly inadequate air brush from his brother's mouth against his ear like strength-less, meaningless whispers.

Sam's eyes whirred around the room. Could he call an ambulance to a torture chamber with a body in the corner? The answer was decidedly _no_. Could he get Dean to a hospital himself? He looked down at his crumpled brother, at his bruised, swollen, and - Sam knew - _collapsing_ throat, and the answer was an even more resounding _no!_

Still, he leaned against Dean's ear and promised, "I'm here, Dean. If you can hear me, I'm right here, I got you, man. I got you, I'll take care of this, and you're gonna be fine."

Because what was one more bold-faced lie?

He's been living one and liberally showering his older brother with them. What was one more, especially if this was the most important?

"You're gonna be fine," Sam resolved, rising up darkly from his crouch and stalking for the still-stunned, bloodied Castiel.

"Heal him," Sam demanded, "He's dying, Castiel. Heal him."

The angel had a heavy, bewildered look settling a film over his normally-sharp eyes. The clueless-ness was enraging Sam all the more. _Think about your faith and your god and my sins later, you bastard. Take care of my brother first... _

"Castiel," Sam said darkly, picking up the angel by the collar of that immortal trench coat and lifting him partway off his feet, "Heal h--"

And with the sound of flapping wings and a cool brush of air, Sam suddenly found himself standing on the rotunda of a hospital emergency room, clenched hands angel-free, his brother lying on the ground a step away, unmoved and exactly as Sam had found him.

He ran for Dean and screamed for help, screamed and cried right from the deepest parts of him, as if those who could hear could fix everything of Dean, body and soul.

* * *

The world had never been this noisy, and yet Heaven had never been so silent.

In his unseen form, Castiel watched as Sam Winchester screamed as if tomorrow would not come without it, all his strength and aggression and anger and pain shaking the air, the sound trembling in the atmosphere, attempting to shake the numb world. There was a pause after his scream and he gathered his breath, tears leaking from his eyes in fear and frustration.

He looked like a lost child.

Was this the man Dean could see, whenever he looked at his brother? _Little orphan_, as if Dean wasn't one himself. As if Sam didn't tower above them all, as if Sam did not have the power to change the fate of the world. As if he hadn't just killed a demon with his mind, as if he hadn't just looked at Castiel in naked defiance, daring him to say it's wrong, aching for an argument, taunting...

"Goddamnitt," Sam sobbed as his hands flailed, not knowing where to go, not wanting to cause his brother more harm. His limbs looked over-long, now. Over-long and useless, shaking and uncertain, as if he hadn't just raised them in complete control and command, clenching his fists in uncompromising, unchallenged power against a demon of the highest order.

Sam gathered another breath to scream, halted when white-clad figures came rushing from the double doors of the hospital emergency room, bearing clattering equipment, feet pounding toward the brothers on the ground. They pried Sam from Dean and converged around the injured man, their words clipped and precise, the syllables alien and quick, like snapping fingers.

Sam was swaying on his feet, a hand pressed to his mouth. He was shaking and deathly afraid as he stared at his brother's too-still form and the strangers' hands working on his body, efficient, adroit, but undeniably cold hands. Memories of days as dark as this, of his brother lying as still as this, streaked across Sam's despairing gaze. This was not their first time here, would not be their last.

Helplessly, Castiel looked up to the quiet night heavens and closed his eyes.

_What should I do_, he asked, _What should I do?_

Sam was crying softly, almost absently. The doctors were talking, the machines were whirring, and somewhere in the distance, Castiel could hear the dull sounds of cars and traffic. But Dean stayed still and quiet, and heaven did too.

_What should I do...?_

Castiel did not know if he was supposed to step in, and if so, to what extent. He was as frozen by indecision now as he had been, watching Sam kill Alistair. It was hard to know these things, lately. Hard to know anything of anything, lately.

"What the hell happened to this kid," one of the orderlies muttered, and Castiel opened his eyes to look at them again because it was like a kick in the stomach. _Hell_ happened to Dean, and though he did not look it, _Heaven_ did too. Talk about a man getting crushed.

They secured Dean's head and bruised neck and all else that was broken in there. They placed a mask over his mouth in an attempt to move air in him, but the ways have shut, and nothing was going anywhere. A few eyes have strayed Sam's oblivious way, as if they had written off any possibility that the crying man would be spared more grief, as if they had already decided Dean would die.

Castiel detested these looks with a fiery passion.

The feeling filled him with fear – fear that he should feel so strongly – and also, strangely enough, relief and resolve. As if suddenly, the decisions were easier.

Heaven was silent, but Castiel's heart was not, and this same heart was given him by his Father. Making a quick decision, he raised up his hand, and imagined the breath of life, gentle, like a mother's kiss awakening a child, hiss past the tightness of Dean Winchester's throat. Just enough, just enough to help him fight. Just enough to help him fight, give him time, and give Castiel too, the time to decide how much of a hand he should have in all of this.

"I hear breath sounds," someone said, bewildered, "We have to intubate, but there's definitely something..."

"Let's get him inside," someone else said, and Dean was lifted to a gurney and carried into the building. They moved like a precise little parade, white insects in clean, crisp movements bearing away their prize.

Sam followed numbly, his large strides eating up the road so much that the quick half-jogs of the men and women trying to keep his brother alive was but a purposeful walk to him.

Castiel, still unseen, trailed after Sam. When the medical personnel blocked Sam's way into the innermost sanctums of this place - the areas that housed the fiercer battles of life and death – the younger Winchester looked both crushed and enraged. Sam vacillated between standing down and letting the people do their jobs, and his desire to either call his brother back from near-death or simply be next to him should the final curtain call of Dean Winchester be this day.

Sam let hope and logic win. He stayed back, looking forlorn as his brother was taken away. Castiel stood beside him for a long, thoughtful moment.

_I will watch him where you cannot_, Castiel found himself promising with a decisive nod, stepping away from Sam and forward into the doors where Dean had been taken.

* * *

They got to him in the nick of time.

It always scared Sam, that thin line between making it and not making it, all based on chance. If he'd gone for a rest stop on the way to the warehouse, Dean would be dead. If he had asked Alistair one more question, or indulged in hurting him for one more second. If he hadn't demanded Castiel to help them when he did...

The litany of injuries and how close he had come to losing his brother again made his knees weak. Just when he thought he was finally strong enough to fight the apocalypse, this had to happen. It was humbling, how he could take on the world and still be brought to his knees by his love for his brother, who was all that he had left, even if, he realized now, he forgot that sometimes.

The beating had been bad, and Sam imagined all the strength of a vindictive demon suddenly set free like Alastair, pounding into his brother's head again, and again, and again. He'd been on the vindictive end of that sick dance before, fists against defenseless face, over and over, and nothing but his brother's weakening hands pawing at him, clutching at his sleeve, wordlessly begging for reprieve.

The resulting concussion was severe, and already-disrupted brain functions had gone haywire at the oxygen deprivation from the strangulation. The force of the hold against Dean's neck obscured respiration for the dangerously lengthy duration of the hold, and well afterwards when swelling and congestion virtually shut down his airways even after he had been set free.

He had stopped breathing, they said, and so Sam felt dizzied and airless too. Dean's heart, impossibly strained (_if they only knew_) had stopped too, and so Sam's also felt stunned and still. It was by pure miracle, they said (_if they only knew there was no such thing_), that they got both things going again and even then, there was no promise of survival or, in survival, complete recovery.

They intubated Dean to help him breathe, the battle for freeing his airways still at a dangerous toss-up. They took him away for an eternity of _hours_, stabilizing him and then whisking him away for tests and scans, checking damages to his neck, checking the placement of the tubes, and _god_, even checking his head because the doctors were afraid the concussion and the oxygen deprivation had knocked something loose in there.

When the doctor told Sam that they won't '_know his true condition until he wakes up_,' he prayed for the first time in a long, _long_ time, that the man wouldn't follow it up with '_If he wakes up_' because Sam could have sworn, fists would have been swinging and teeth flying in that goddamn room--

The doctor did not say it.

He saved himself further aggravation when he led Sam into Dean's room.

His brother was more or less propped up to a sitting position to help him breathe. There was that saying, about someone looking like a puppet with the strings cut? He looked like that, all loose, useless limbs and a slumped posture. And his strings weren't just cut. He looked so battered that someone must have murdered the puppet-master too, 'cos the puppet was never coming alive again. He looked like a _wreck;_ he looked vandalized, things just shoved into him. There was that detested tube running into his mouth, looking intrusive because it was kept in position by a cloth that wound around his face, and his teeth were lightly clamped over it, keeping his mouth open in a kind of lazy, unnatural snarl. There were the lines on his arms, the leads on his head.

Sam sighed as if he could sigh away his troubles.

"Dean," he murmured, and for the first time in a long time, the world narrowed to nothing but Dean. No demons, no vengeance, no rage, no fear, no brokenness, no apocalypse. Just his brother. Just him and his brother in here.

He sank to a sick-green seat by his brothers bed, heavily. It felt too far, so he dragged it forward. He sat back for a second before deciding it still felt like he was too far and so he dragged it forward, toward Dean some more. And then once more over, and once more after that. Even when his knees were already pressing painfully against the side of the bed, and his hand was warm against his brother's icy, still forearm, it still felt too far.

It will always be too far, until Dean wakes up and settles those eyes on Sam.

* * *

Castiel kept his unseen form as he stood by the door to Dean's room.

He wasn't certain why... there was something gnawing at his insides, something that burned. There was shame, which made the idea of facing Sam after what had happened to Dean on Castiel's watch while doing the work of God, unbearable. There was guilt, that he had been unable to do more to prevent Alistair's abuse. There was confusion, because he did not know what to say to apologize, or to make amends, or _what. to. do. now._

And so he stood there, watching one brother unconscious and the other standing watch, because he suspected the answer lay in that room, somehow.

* * *

The past was a merciless ghost, and the helpless thought skirted in Sam's weary mind, hours into settling on the seat next to Dean's bed.

_Dean is weak_, his mind teased, as if he was giving the thought a shot. This is precisely what he was talking about, right? Dean's weakness? And now here they were, halfway to death again, weren't they? He was right, when he said Dean was weak.

He tried to kill the thought, guiltily. And not very successfully.

_He's not weak_, Sam amended and searched for a better term, came up with a semantic solution, _He's just weak_er_ than he used to be_.

"That's fair, isn't it?" he murmured at his brother, "'Sides, man. You came from hell. You can't expect to be the same."

Although Sam did, for a time, expect his brother to come out swinging, didn't he? There was that kid brother's delusion again, that Dean can make everything right, including Sam's failures. Dean can make everything right. But he couldn't, he _didn't_, and Sam felt a very human disappointment in that, a disappointment that found voice in resentment.

"But you're not weak," Sam said, softly, "You've made love with an angel, danced with reapers and you're a bat outta hell, big brother. You're a fricking rockstar, aren't you, Dean? So you'll be okay. You'll be okay..."

_You have to be okay_.

_'Cos you're strong. _

_Weaker, but still strong. _

_Weaker than me_, Sam thought, _But still strong_.

Power was a dangerously transformative thing, and Sam could again feel it churning hungrily inside his body. Pounding, ferocious life-blood... almost absently, he toyed with the idea of _forcing_ Dean awake.

_Can I _will_ you awake_?

He stared at his brother's face, and gulped nervously when he felt Dean's eyes tremble by the force of his power.

_Wake up_.

_Now._

Dean's eyes opened, but stared back at him, mockingly empty.

Sam caught himself, took a deep, shaky breath. He let his brother go, and the eyes slid shut. Manipulating Dean felt wrong. And dirty. Sam wasn't sure if it was because it was ineffective, or if it was because Dean was vulnerable and weaker and it was just plain unfair.

_Weak_...

When he called Dean weak under the spell of a siren a couple of weeks back, it hadn't been the first time, he remembered suddenly. Over ten years ago, Dean had gotten badly hurt on a hunt, had them laid up in an okay-town for rehab on his back on one of the Winchester's longer stretches of semi-normalcy...

* * *

_1995_

* * *

_"Heya there Sammy," the cheery afternoon nurse at the eighth floor greeted him, when he walked up to the desk. He felt his face flush a little._

_"It's Sam," he mumbled, not looking directly at her. Dean had teased him the night before that Andie was the only one who _never_ got the surly, precocious kid's correction, and that was because she was tall and blond and Sammy was just getting rid of his _girls-are-icky_ stage._

_"Yeah?" she said, light eyes crinkling, "You grow up overnight or something? You never used to mind before."_

_"Um," he said, changing the subject quickly, "How's Dean today?"_

_Her eyes softened, "Not so good, sweetie. But I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."_

_Sam frowned, "He was okay yesterday."_

_"The doctors decided to begin weaning him off the heavy drugs today," she told him softly, moving around the desk to stand beside him, "From here on out, there are going to be good days and there are going to be bad ones, and he just has to ride 'em out."_

_"You couldn't give him anything at all?"_

_"Nothing like the stuff he used to have," she said, "The doctors don't want him to become dependent on the heavy medication, Sammy. We have to be cautious about things like that." _

_Sam glanced in the direction of his older brother's room, "Isn't it too soon?"_

_She pursed her lips, and shrugged, "Your brother's tough."_

_"He's not superman," Sam pointed out, "How bad is it?"_

_"We couldn't even get him up and around for therapy today," she replied, "So now he's not only hurting he's also bored, and you know how your brother gets when he's bored."_

Hell yeah_, Sam thought with a sigh._

_She suddenly brightened, saying, "But he'll be much better now that you're here."_

_He looked up at her skeptically. _Man_, she was tall. Her eyes were shining, and her wavy blond hair was gold like nothing else in the world. She smelled delightfully like soap and water. He wanted to believe her because she was so earnest and sure, and she looked like an angel _(and like mom, from the pictures...); _but even at the tender age of twelve, he found her optimism uncharacteristic of the human race and inappropriate for survival._

_"Yeah..." he said, noncommittally. He scowled when she patted his head. He's not that short, _damn it_, and he wanted her to marry him, not treat him like a lost kid._

_"Where's your dad?" she asked, craning her head to look around._

_"Somewhere around here," he lied breezily, ducking away from her hand. He didn't know where his father was. He just came from school and hitched a ride to the hospital from one of those impressionable, well-meaning parents who bought the standard set of lies about relatives in hospitals._

_"Thanks for the head's up," he said, hoisting his school bag up more securely along his shoulder, making ready to get the hell away from her._

_"Oh, hey Sammy?" she called out._

_He turned back toward her miserably. Were blonds a little bit slow on the uptake? Even his older brother could never grasp that it was _Sam _now._

_"I think your clothes are on backwards," she said._

_"It's um," he said flippantly, "It's something I'm doing for school."_

_"Okay," she said, again with that blinding smile. He ducked away from the glare of the sun of that, and then scurried away to his brother's room._

" " "

_His older brother's face was turned toward the windows with his eyes closed, and he did not acknowledge Sam's entrance at all, but the last few weeks of being cooped up in this miserable situation had Sam seeing this same scene again and again, enough so that he could easily tell that Dean was actually wide-awake. His heavy breathing was practically _contrived _in an effort to relax, and the white-knuckled grip on the blankets over his chest were clear indications that he was in pain._

_Sam put down his battered, army-issue hand-me-down rucksack on the floor by one of the two stiff-backed seats in the private room, giving his older brother the time to put himself together._

_"Hey, Sammy," finally came the quiet mutter, dry lips barely moving. Dean opened his eyes, but moved nothing else._

_"Hey Dean," Sam greeted, dragging his seat to his brother's line of vision. He knew this mode; this was Dean after finding the position that hurt the least, and he was determined to stay still and milk it for all it was worth._

_"Your clothes are on backwards," Dean commented, brows rising, and the simple movement had him wincing, and closing his eyes back up again._

_"I told you yesterday," Sam said, "It's '_Opposite Day_' today._ _You forgot?"_

_Dean clenched his eyes shut tight, then blinked them open, "I remember, I'm sorry. You look like a doofus. It's distracting."_

_Sam smiled wanly, "_You _have your clothes on backwards."_

_"I do?" Dean asked, mildly bothered, "Shit. The nurse who helped change my clothes has some issues 'cos her daughter--"_

_"No," Sam corrected, not needing to hear the rest of the story about Dean and some woman's daughter because it was almost always the same sordid tale, "It's '_Opposite Day_.' _My_ clothes are on the right way, _you _have _your_ clothes on backwards."_

_Dean's eyes narrowed to slits. "Stop screwing with my head, injured here. And you still look like an idiot."_

_"Thanks, Dean," Sam said, brightly, pretending to be obtuse._

_"I hate you."_

_"I hate you too!" Sam said, enthusiastically, meaning '_I love you_' instead. Funny, how much easier it was to say the opposite of things._

_"Sam, stop it."_

_"They said it's supposed to improve my vocabulary," Sam explained quickly, "If you think of antonyms and consciously pick your words. Frankly, I think it's juvenile. But our teacher's pissed at the quality of the work she's been seeing lately, so she said she'll treat us like a bunch of kids 'til we're better. Anyway, deal with it and help me out, will you? I'm supposed to stick with it for the rest of the day and write a journal."_

_"Homework," Dean scowled, "Ick. Now I have a few choice vocabulary words for that--"_

_"You have homework too," Sam said, cutting him off, "I got it from that girl."_

_"You'd have to elaborate on that," Dean said with a smirk._

_"Chelsea," Sam said, "The one with the glasses. The one who follows you around. And don't make faces, Dean. She was nice enough to help me out."_

_"I've been out of school more than in, lately," Dean said, wistfully, "I don't think I even wanna bother with homework. I think this year's a lost cause for me."_

_Sam didn't bother to dispute that because he was thinking the same thing and his older brother was no fool. He just pursed his lips, and decided to be annoyed with his father for their lifestyle instead. _

_"I've never not-made it before," Dean said, looking disarmed and sad, "I always made it somehow."_

_"Well you have nothing to be ashamed of," Sam said, "Your grades are good, Dean. God knows how... it's just... if we weren't hunting and if you didn't get so badly hurt..."_

_"Are we gonna get into this now?" Dean groaned, "What we're doing, Sam, someone needs to do it, or else people get hurt. Or they die, simple as that. If someone had been around for our family... then maybe mom would be alive right now."_

_Sam bit back his tongue. Dean talking about their mom usually meant he was half-insane with the pain. Sure enough, the white-knuckled grip on the sheets tightened all the more, making Dean's arms tremble. He clenched his eyes shut again, and tears absently leaked from them. He pressed his face against the pillow, and bit back a quiet moan. His hair glistened with sweat in the light of the late afternoon sun seeping from the blinds in the windows, and his face turned three shades impossibly paler._

_"I'm gonna be sick," he choked out eyes snapping open in a panic as he smothered his coughing by pressing his lips together tight, not wanting to make a mess of himself. He grunted as he scrambled for a handhold on the railings of his bed, attempting to sit up. But his body was far from ready; he cried out in pain when the movement jostled his injuries, and he sank back almost limply, disoriented, eyes dimming. He turned to his side, and started to throw up in earnest. _

_Sam shot to his feet and grabbed a trash can, shoving it by Dean's face. His brother hung his head over the pale green plastic monstrosity, shaking as he retched into the can. Sam winced as he kept on going, getting rid of air and water and acrid medicine. The room started to smell sickly-bitter, and as Dean's sickness turned to dry heaves, Sam angled to sit beside him, and pressed at his shoulder to lay him flat._

_"No," Dean groaned, still wanting to be ill on the trash can._

_"Nothing's coming out, Dean," Sam said quietly, "You might as well just settle down."_

_Dean coughed and covered his mouth, grunted but complied. He laid flat on his back, just trying to breathe, head turned up to the ceiling. His chest rose and fell, shallow and desperately fast._

_Sam placed the trash can down on the ground but otherwise remained where he sat on the bed by Dean's arm, a comforting hand on his trembling brother's shoulder. Dean's body shook with tremors of pain and shock, but he turned a weary gaze toward Sam._

_"Thanks."_

_The dimples on Sam's cheeks winked at Dean as he smiled a little. A sound by the door had Sam's head shooting up to find Andie, her pretty lips pursed in disapproval. She looked at Dean, measuring. _

_"I'm calling Doctor Niles," she announced, before turning on her white flat shoes. Sam found even her hushed, efficient movements graceful._

_Dean chuckled breathlessly beneath him, "Oh, Sammy. Aim for the stars, why don't you."_

_His face reddened. "You're a jerk."_

_"Thanks, Sammy!" Dean said, drowsy-brightly._

_"What?!"_

_"It's '_Opposite Day_,'" Dean reminded him with a gasp, the cheekiness persisting despite his pain now that he thought of something irresistibly clever to piss Sam off with, "Have you forgotten?"_

_"I hate you."_

_"I hate you too," Dean said, meaning _'I love you_' instead. Sam caught the nuance and softened. Why was it easier to say the opposite of things?_

_"You know who else I hate?" Sam asked, "I hate dad."_

_Dean blinked at him, eyes hazy but struggling for clarity, trying to gage if Sam was saying he loved their dad, or if Sam was saying he actually, really hated him and '_Opposite Day_' was the only time he could expressly say so._

_"I hate him too," Dean said, experimentally, meaning without a doubt that he loved his father._

_Andie came back with Dean's primary doctor, cutting off the exchange. He took one look at Dean, uncoiled an oxygen mask hanging over his head and placed it on his face, and drew out a syringe._

_"Looks like we jumped the gun a little on this, buddy," Niles said, as he injected the painkillers into one of the ports of Dean's IV's. "This should help you out a little, and we can figure out how to make changes on our target timelines, all right?"_

_"All right," Dean murmured, eyelids turning heavy as the drugs started to do their magic. He must have really looked like shit, for them to put him back on the _excellent _stuff._

_He let his eyes slip close, and heard the nurse and the doctor walk out of the room. He felt Sam's weight lift from the bed, and the absence of Sam's warming presence discomfited him enough such that he opened his eyes back up again, only to find his kid brother going for the blinds and shutting them. And then Sam walked to the light switch to turn off the lights._

_"No," Dean said softly, licking at his lips and not liking how small his voice sounded, "Sammy. Keep it on. You..." he drawled, trying to put his clouded wits together, "You're gonna wreck your eyes if you study and read in the dark."_

_"I won't, I'll just sit here," Sam lied._

_"So that's an '_I will_' on '_Opposite Day_' right?" Dean asked, wryly, "Come on. We both know you're gonna sit there and work so just keep it on."_

_"But it'll help you rest," Sam pointed out, not bothering to correct Dean._

_"With this shit in me," Dean insisted, randomly motioning for the IV hanging over his head, "I can sleep through the apocalypse, man. Leave the light on, you need to do your homework."_

_Sam did as he was told, and then walked back to the bed. He sat back down next to Dean's arm._

_"You feeling better?" he asked, quietly._

_"Yeah," Dean said, chuckling sleepily, "Your brother's a total lightweight, huh? Total lame-ass, gotta be tanked up on this shit just to get two thoughts together."_

_"Yeah," Sam agreed, but only in words, "You're weak, man."_

_Dean stared at him, fought off the drug-induced sleep as his eyes started to drift close again, looking like he was wondering if Sam meant it. Being called weak was, of all things, his _weakness_. _

_"You're the weakest guy I know," Sam went on, "And the single, absolute worst big brother in the world."_

_Dean's lips curved into a sleepy smile then, knowing for sure now that Sam was just getting into '_Opposite Day_' again. He was the best big brother in the world and they both knew it, so that must have meant the weak-thing meant the opposite too._

_"I hate you, Sammy."_

_"I hate you more, Dean."_

* * *

2009

* * *

_I can _s_leep through the apocalypse_, Dean had joked back then, Sam remembered.

"'S that what you're doing?" Sam asked him, quietly, "Huh, Dean? 's that what you're doing right now? 'Cos that's a cool plan. I would do that if I could."

Sam lost time on that seat and in his memories. He didn't know how long he's been sitting there before Dean's doctor came back, looking grave and weary and very much like a messenger about to get shot.

"Doc?" Sam pressed.

"Well he's a fighter, I'll tell you that," the man hesitated.

Sam pursed his lips and curbed his annoyance. _Damn right, he's a fighter. This is not news to me. But he's not superman, is he? Will he win? Will he live? Will he wake up? Will he come back to me...?_

"We're not seeing the improvements we're hoping for," the doctor admitted, "And he's running a fever now too. Since you're the one who brought him in, I know I don't have to tell you the damage is extensive. Strangulation... is one of the more complex traumatic injuries, you see. There are a lot of avenues for delayed death and your brother--"

_Is well on his way down several of them_.

"Don't say it," Sam snapped, darkly, dangerously. Anyone with half a brain could sense that something had changed, and _charged_ the very air in that room just by his venom.

But the doctor had been at this game a long time too. He was as much a medical professional as Sam was a dangerous hunter.

"It doesn't make it any less true," he finished, quietly, "I'm sorry. At this point, all I could advise you to do is talk to him, let him know you're here. And then you can just hope, and wait."

* * *

_Little orphan_, Castiel had thought, when he was looking at Sam hours ago.

He hadn't always been on the Winchester detail, but he knew enough about them to know that even at his father's death, Sam never looked quite this lost. Dean was his father and mother and greatest friend. His loss would be – _had already been_ – insurmountable for Sam. When Dean died, there had been hell below and hell above, each place manned by one brother. And they both came out of that debacle dented.

Sam sat by his brother's bed, as Castiel watched. He was looking at the machines, and then earnestly at Dean's face.

Castiel could no longer postpone the inevitable. He let himself be seen, and the astute hunter caught him half a beat later. Castiel stepped away from the door out of some absurd notion of not wanting to disturb Dean as he rested.

Sam stalked out of his older brother's room in pursuit, towered over Castiel, and demanded, simply: _Get in there_ and _Miracle. Now_.

Castiel heard himself making excuses, voicing his doubts and apprehensions, as Sam sputtered through blind, breathless _rage_, barely restrained, simmering to the surface. The orphan was smothered dead on the hospital corridor. Sam was all strength and rage and coiled muscle now, ready to spring and start throwing punches.

They both knew there was more of this job to be done, but Sam did not care, not at present. The moment he realized Castiel would be useless to his current occupation – the care of his brother – he had simply turned his back on the angel and walked away.

Loosely, Castiel remembered that it was how Sam had been the first time he was confronted by his brother's mortality. The weary doctor had said "_We can't work miracles. I really am sorry," _and Sam had pushed past him and gone then too. Those who could not help him save Dean deserved not another second of his time.

Castiel watched him walk away, mind racing. Not wanting to leave, and yet knowing he had to get to the bottom of all this.

* * *

"I killed Alistair," Sam confessed, quietly, experimentally, absurdly wondering if that would be the thing to wake up his brother.

"I drink demon blood regularly," he added, in a burst of equally-absurd enthusiasm. Both statements did not have the desired effect, and Dean remained stubbornly unconscious.

He sighed, sinking into the damned uncomfortable seat.

"Hate this damn chair," he muttered, "Always hate the seats by your bed, man, and believe me, I've had many."

He chewed on his lip, thoughtfully, "I've had lumpy couches, broken cots. I've tried sleeping on wooden bench seats, I've sat on examiner's stools and old ones with the stuffing sticking out, and new ones that sank on my ass, and high ones and low ones."

Sam chuckled as he went on, "We've had rooms with just one seat that dad and I would always squabble over, or take turns sitting on. We'd bet on who you'd wake up for. We'd fight on what 'waking up' really means – eyes open? Or muttering about chicks from TV reruns? We also bet on whether or not the first words out of your mouth would be '_How's dad?'_ or '_Where's Sammy_?' or '_When do I get out_?' or '_Did we get it_?' Dad knew right away not to make that bet anymore. He won just once, and that was only because he beat me to saying you'd say '_Where's Sammy?_' before anything else."

Sam closed his eyes. What would his father do, if he were here?

"There was one good chair, though," he said, "It was that long hospital stretch in...'95? Oh, crap. No, not that one, I was too young. Hm. '01. I was gonna graduate from high school. Life was shitty, the least we could have had was a decent chair. Remember that one, Dean?"

* * *

_2001_

* * *

_"Heya there Sammy," the cheery afternoon nurse at the eighth floor greeted him, when he walked up to the desk. He felt his face flush a little._

_"It's Sam," he mumbled, not looking directly at her. She was a cute brunette, which meant that she must have hung around Dean _a lot_. Calling him 'Sammy' was an affliction that the nurses who spent the most time with his brother all managed to catch and couldn't get rid of. Dean was like spreading the damn plague. At least it wasn't an STD._

_"How's Dean today?" he asked._

_"Not so good, Sammy," she answered, "But I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."_

_Sam sighed, ran his hands over his hair, worried and frustrated. "What the hell is going on with him? He's supposed to be getting better already."_

_"The pain management system isn't working," she said, "So they're trying some new things, makes him nauseous. But you go on ahead and see him, sweetie."_

_Sam headed on purposefully toward his older brother's room, to find Dean lying curled on his side, one hand curved over his eyes to shield them. Sam set his backpack down on the floor as quietly as he could, and then waited to be acknowledged, sitting on the battered but comfortable leather seat by his brother's bed._

_"Heya Sammy," Dean muttered, not bothering to move._

_"What doesn't hurt?" Sam asked him, quietly._

_"Weirdly enough," Dean sighed, "Only my head hurts."_

_"Yeah?" Sam asked, surprised. He and his dad called 911 for Dean after a bad fall during a hunt. He had broken an arm, a couple of ribs, got a mild concussion for his trouble. What the doctors had been worried about, though, was a bad fracture to his leg and damage to his back, which had been as-severely injured a couple of years ago. He's been in the hospital for weeks, trying to find decent pain management and to get his limbs properly moving again._

_"Not concussion-related or anything, right?" Sam asked, "We got over that weeks ago."_

_"Yup," Dean affirmed, "It's just the new meds. Makes me all loopy."_

_"Why'd they switch you?" Sam asked._

_"'Cos the old ones weren't working."_

_"They worked for awhile," Sam pointed out._

_"Somebody mentioned something about tolerance," Dean snapped, "Geez, Sam. I don't know, all right? Did I get an MD we all forgot about?"_

_"Sorry," Sam said, shrugging sheepishly, "I'm worried, 's all."_

_"Well that's not an excuse to be talking like an idiot," Dean hissed. He finally lifted his hand from his eyes, and squinted at his brother, "You're not sitting around in class just worrying about me, are you?"_

_Sam snickered at him, "All day, man."_

_"Gross."_

_Sam grinned at his older brother, "I'm doing okay in class."_

_"You like this school, right?" Dean asked, "One of the best ones you've ever had, right? Good programs and everything?"_

_"Yeah," Sam asked, "Why?"_

_"Just making sure."_

_"Making sure of what?"_

_"Nothing," Dean said quickly._

_"You're right, the drugs are making you loopy," Sam said._

_"But it's a good school," Dean said, distractedly._

_"One of the best," Sam affirmed, "Dean. What?"_

_"I mean," the older Winchester hesitated, "If you're gonna be stuck here, then I guess I was kinda hoping... you know. That it wouldn't be so bad. That it could be a good thing."_

_Sam frowned, and narrowed his eyes in thought, "It's a great school, Dean. Don't worry about me."_

_"Graduation's in about a month or two, right?" Dean asked._

_"Yeah," Sam said, scowling, "But dad wants out of here as soon as you're good to go. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever finish high school."_

_"You will," Dean said, "And you'll finish here, Sam, mark my word."_

_"And then after that I'm free."_

_"Free from us," Dean said._

_Sam hissed at him to be quiet, and, paranoid, looked to the door as if their father was to materialize any moment._

_"Relax, man," Dean said with a grunt as he adjusted his weight on the bed, "He passed by here earlier, said he was headed out to a paid gig one state over. I think I'm bankrupting us."_

_"Don't worry about that," Sam soothed, "I'm getting a part-time job up at--"_

_"No," Dean said quickly, "You work on graduating, Sammy. Dad'll make it right, I swear. And I'll make up for it when I get outta here. But you're almost done, dude. Just... do what you do."_

_"'Cos you want me gone, huh?" Sam teased._

_"You know I don't," Dean said, dead-serious because he was on drugs and it was probably the only time he could let some things out._

_"But your head's not in this anymore," Dean went on, quietly, "Might just get you killed. And I can't stand it, you know that too, you and the old man yelling up a storm all the time. Or... or you blaming him for everything bad that happens to us--"_

_"I don't—"_

_"Sure you do," Dean said, "We aren't supposed to be hunting, this isn't normal, blah, blah, blah. It's damn fair of you to say all this, but it's damned right of him to be doing what he does too. You're both right, so you should just both do whatever the hell you want to, before one of you gets killed distracted on a job, or you end up killing each other. 'Sides... I'm gonna say this just 'cos it needs saying, Sammy. You can only blame the old man for so much. At some point, you being stuck somewhere stops being his fault and starts becoming yours. You wanna go, you got things to do? You oughta."_

_Sam looked at him for a long moment, before flatly deciding, "You're mad at me."_

_"I'm not mad, man," Dean said, "I've just... I've just got nothing else to do all day but think. And this is what comes out. I hate thinking."_

_Sam smiled a little, just as Dean intended for him to._

_"Listen, Sammy," Dean said, "I want you around. But if that's gonna get you killed, then I want you outta here more, you get that?"_

_"I get it," Sam said._

_Dean stared at him, before becoming convinced, "Good." He shifted again, and placed his hand back over his face._

_"I'm gonna hunt up your doctor," Sam announced, rising from the chair, "Find out what's going on with the meds situation."_

_"Sam, don't--" Dean said._

_"I'll just be gone a minute," Sam called back as he jogged away, as unstoppable and relentless as always._

* * *

2009

* * *

"I never brought it up," Sam said, "But you know what your doctor told me? He said that your pain thing back then was either psychological, or you were faking it, but that they couldn't do much but take you on your word and to experiment with different stuff anyway, which was why you kept getting the headaches and the nausea. I thought I was going to punch him in the head, you know, just take him down, for saying that crap about you. But turned out he meant well. He showed me some records. You kept saying that the expensive stuff wasn't working, kept steering them toward the cheap stuff. But you failed the blind testing and your stated preferences weren't matching the physiological evidence.

"After that," Sam sighed, "He also said that there was some indication of delaying on your part, like you were trying to keep from getting better. And that you kept asking them about timelines. I only guessed later that you really did get my back, didn't you? Kept us there long enough for me to finish high school?

"I never told you that I knew," Sam said, "You never told me you did that. Probably the first big secret we kept from each other, huh? And not the last one, unfortunately. The best one, though, I think. The nicest one. Wish we'd have more secrets like that."

Sam sighed again, "Hey. Dean. Wake up, man. I never got to thank you for that. I'm not even sure why. When graduation day finally came, I remember you hobbled your way in. I saw you right off the bat. In the middle of that crowd, I knew right away you were there. And then you went from invalid to itching to leave that town right after that. I think dad figured out you were faking too, but he didn't call you out on it either. I'm not really sure, but now I think it's 'cos he wanted to give me the chance to finish too, but needed an excuse to keep us in that town without having to make the choice to set hunting aside himself. I don't know.

"That was crazy," Sam said, "You don't mess around with your body like that. But whoever could stop you, huh? Anyway, that's why you should wake up, now. You don't have to take care of me, or anything else anymore. I got us, now. It's my turn to help you out now. All you gotta do is wake up, Dean. I'll take care of everything else."

**To be continued...**

In the next chapter, we'll see Dean awake, and his perspective will be joining those of Sam's and Castiel's. Hope to catch you on that one!


	2. Chapter 2

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**As He Breaks**

Summary:Sam ran to Dean and screamed for help, screamed and cried right from the deepest parts of him, as if those who could hear could fix everything of his brother, body and soul. Tag to the irresistible 4.16.

**Hi gang**!

Wow, lots of love and thanks for all the comments. They really, really really keep me going; they're insightful and interesting and I intend to address your reviews more lengthily (as always) in my standard post-fic Afterword, which should be posted in a few days (or hours, haha, depending on my productivity in the next few). Either way, I am extremely, extremely grateful for your reviews and they really enrich the work. I know everyone's busy so toss them in if you can. If not, I just hope the next part does not disappoint.

Be warned though... this chapter makes me really, really nervous and uncertain. But I felt like I had to go there, so I guess I just figured I might as well get this out and see what happens. C&C's as welcome as always but be kind, haha, because I think I'm walking the line a little bit here.

Anyway, without further ado, _As He Breaks_, Chapter 2:

**

* * *

****As He Breaks**

* * *

**2**

* * *

There was a time in Sam's life when a room felt different just because Dean was awake. He could be quiet, thoughtful and unobtrusive, silent and still, but the room would feel different and charged, and Sam could sense it even half-aware.

But it was one of the many things that have changed in Dean since he got back from hell, wasn't it?

Sam had fallen asleep on folded arms by Dean's bed and woke slowly on his own time, realizing his brother was awake only when he raised his head and felt Dean's too-warm hand slide away from his head, and found those deep green eyes looking down at him.

Sam started, ignored the implications of not having woken to Dean reaching for him, and then just let his face widen to a disarmed smile. "Welcome back, man."

Dean blinked at him and gave him a small, measured nod. He was apparently determined not to move, what with the tube in his throat and the big mistake it would be to dislodge it. This was a far, far cry from the man who had more than once gasped his way back to life, years before, just _taking _his life back by the neck. Dean looked drained, and the fact that he wasn't raising any hell about the damned tube was also testament to him knowing he must need it.

"Quick rules," Sam said, "One blink 'yes,' and two blinks 'no,' all right?"

Dean's eyes could look so earnest sometimes, Sam realized. He stared at Sam in complete trust and dependence. He looked young and... and _freckly! _of all things. He blinked once, brows furrowed in concentration.

"Oh and knowing you," Sam added quickly, "I'd toss in a wink if you're not sure and the answer is something in between, all right? Then I'll just try to elaborate."

One meaningful blink for '_yes_.'

"Good," Sam grinned, "Been awake long?"

Wink.

"Kind-of, huh?" Sam clarified, "Okay. Any of the doctors or nurses see you awake?"

Dean rolled back his eyes.

It wasn't in the rules, but Sam guessed what it meant anyway. "I'd have noticed," Sam said indignantly, "But I had to be sure, man. Okay, um... pain. Manageable?"

Dean could still lie with his trap shoved shut. Hesitant pause, and then one blink for '_yes_.'

It was Sam's turn to roll back his eyes, "Need me to call someone?"

Two very decisive blinks for '_no_.'

"Someone will be in soon anyway," Sam said with a shrug, "You remember why you're here?"

A long, hard stare, before another blink.

"Yeah, I wish I could forget too," Sam said, quietly. He chewed at his lip, thought about the condensed, PG version of this sordid tale. "I got to you just in time. Castiel's all right, so am I, and Alistair is dead."

Green eyes widened. Sam decided not to elaborate on precisely how.

"We still don't know who's killing the angels or how," Sam said, hoping that piece of news would be much more distracting, "Cas is on that case. I think. Someone fucked up your devil's trap, y'see, and Cas sure got an earful from me on that one. Your face is a mess, you got a concussion, and the worst injury is that your airways are shot, hence the vent. You've been out since we brought you in..." he checked his watch, "A little over three days ago. So. How's the breathing?"

Dean's chest rose and he looked thoughtful, assessing. He gave Sam a wincing wink.

"If it's feeling tight," Sam said, "It's probably 'cos there's been some complications too. You're kinda sick. You know how it goes, unfortunately; congestion, infection, vent complications... But you're awake, so we can sock it to the medicos all over again, huh? We'll show them."

Dean sighed, and slumped, and his eyes began to close heavily.

"I tired you out, huh?" Sam asked, making to rise, "I'm gonna go get someone in here, okay? Before you fall asleep, I'll have someone take a look at you."

Dean didn't reopen his eyes, but gripped at Sam's forearm blindly. His hand was overly-warm from the fever he was riding, and heavy from his weariness. The message was clear though, and Sam was hard-pressed to go anywhere now.

"Come on, man," Sam chuckled, "They've gotta know I didn't dream this up."

Dean ignored him, and began to doze off. Sam sighed and stayed where he was, kept that tenuous connection that they have not had in a bit of awhile.

"Okay you big jerk," he said softly, "I hate this damn chair and my ass hurts, but you got it."

* * *

If he had initially avoided running into Sam out of guilt and uncertainty, it was doubly hard finding the stomach to see Dean awake but ill, Dean with his injured eyes trying to be strong and stoic but shouting with dread and need.

Still... Castiel had promised, hadn't he, that he would watch for Dean when Sam could not? Days into this nightmarish exercise, the younger Winchester had finally been bullied out by the older one (in rare form, lately) to go sleep on a decent bed, go grab their car from wherever it was left, go take a shower, have a good meal somewhere else.

First words out of Dean's mouth after the tube was taken out, as a matter of fact. He had coughed and folded miserably against himself, clutching at his chest. His voice when it came out, was raspy and dry and strength-less, but he was insistent and undeniable. His eyes burned with so much determination and decision - _just like he used to have_ - and so a stunned, then nostalgic Sam followed his order and left, and Castiel took his place.

For a long moment, he just watched an oblivious Dean sleep. He was ill apart from injured now, and he looked it. He was a drawn, gray-white where he was not bruised and swollen, and his face had a sheen of sweat to it. He was perfectly unmoving, and yet despair seemed almost to be seeping off of him, just emptying him out.

Castiel let his eyes do their careful watching. The older Winchester had given him repeated grief about it, watching people sleep. It wasn't a perversion, really, but more of a fascination. Angels didn't sleep, after all.

Dean tended to sleep fitfully since returning from Hell. He tossed and shook and ultimately jerked himself awake. Castiel had at first found it sad and pitiful, but now missed the movement of those nightmarish slumbers compared to the resigned weightiness of how he now slept. Dean, plagued by hell in his dreams, still had a sense of resistance: he cried out, he moved, he ultimately woke. But now, body battered and spirit worn, he just sank on the sheets and slept on. Castiel doubted the memories of hell went away. He could only guess that Dean suffered them resignedly now.

He looked like he would sink right through the bed, the way he laid down into it. Like a substance-less ghost, translucent and... vanishing.

Castiel did not like that change in Dean.

Castiel liked Dean as he had been, before finding out his role in breaking the first seal; hell-battered and down on the ground, yes, but alive and kicking and throwing blind punches. Castiel had admired that unsubtle barn-cat spirit. This present incarnation was almost as good as... _dead_. And Dean dead inside had been a lot to lose. He meant it truly when he told Dean that he'd have given anything to keep Dean from having to torture anyone ever again.

When Dean had promised Castiel that if he went in to torture Alistair, they would not like what would come back out, Dean was effectively asking Castiel if the angels could afford to lose what little was left of _Dean_. Castiel had said yes. And so Dean had gone in, shoulders low and slumped and face shadowed. As if he'd been told that what was left of him wasn't worth preserving as much as the information he could torture out of Alistair.

And here they both were.

This was probably not what Dean thought he would be when he came back out, but he was right nonetheless.

Castiel did not like _what came back out_.

Castiel did not want him to lie so still.

Castiel wanted him to strike out against his nightmares, to kick back against the world, to _rage_, just to be _alive_.

Castiel...

...was not supposed to like or want anything, other than what his Father commanded. But as he had earlier decided, this heart of his _screams_, and this is the same heart his Father had given. It could not be wrong, could it? Or even if it could, he could not _not-do_ what he felt to be right.

"Are you all right?" Castiel asked, quietly, knowing it would wake the hunter. _Hoping_ it would wake him, because Dean's silence and the stillness pained him in a way he had never thought he could feel pain before.

_Wake._

_Move._

_Fight_...

"No thanks to you," came the scarred, delayed, but ultimately clever reply.

Castiel felt a pang of guilt and regret, but more than anything, he felt relief that there was still something of Dean that bucked and resisted. He sat back, saying, "You need to be more careful."

"You need to learn how to manage a damn devil's trap," came the retort. His voice would still not carry, and he gulped painfully at the strain of talking. His chest rose and fell with labored breathing. Or maybe they were just weary sighs.

"That's not what I mean," Castiel said, mildly. He paused, and let his grief and sense of loss be buried deep, saying, "Uriel is dead."

Dean looked mildly regretful. His eyes went cloudy like that, in sympathy for Castiel and, as if in the span of a few seconds, he had already wondered if it was his fault, if he hadn't been good enough to wrangle information from Alistair, if there was something else he could have done.

"Is it the demons?" Dean asked.

"It's disobedience," Castiel said, looking at Dean meaningfully, "He was working against us."

Dean took this in thoughtfully. He looked away from Castiel's penetrating gaze. Their lives were a mess, alliances all jumbled up, further compounding already-untenable situations. When Dean gulped nervously and gathered his words, Castiel already knew what the next question would be.

"Is it true?" Dean asked, looking to Castiel searchingly, and the angel could swear it was one of the bravest things anyone could ever do, to face up to so harsh a truth, so heavy a responsibility, "Did I break the first seal? Did I start all this?"

Castiel looked him square in the eye, and found that the bravest man in the world deserved nothing short of the straightforward truth.

"Yes."

Dean looked away, eyes downcast, disappointed, self-angry. _Ashamed_.

"When we discovered Lilith's plan for you," Castiel went on, "We laid siege to hell."

Memories of that campaign streaked across Castiel's mind. The fire, the burning, the screaming, the sheer desperation of those dark days, the brothers and sisters he had lost. The disappointment and crippling sense of failure that they arrived too late.

"And we fought our way to get to you," he said, "before you--"

"So I started the apocalypse," Dean cut him off, brokenly.

Castiel could not help it. He looked heavenward, once more asking for an answer, for guidance, for some sort of... of... comfort to offer to so tortured a soul. Or a reason, at least, why all of this was happening. Heaven was silent, and Castiel found that the only thing he could do - the _best_ he could do for Dean - was to give him the truth, truths that could only hurt him, yes, but truths that he deserved.

"We were too late."

He had found Dean in Hell bloodied and mad, eyes wide and manic, fingers curled like tight claws. He looked like a sick dog that should be put down. Castiel had at first been angered, had wanted to strike him down, had wanted to leave him. All the pain, all the loss, all for _nothing_--

"Why didn't you just leave me there, then?" Dean asked, the self-loathing loud and clear and unmistakable. _Punish me. Destroy me. Let me die. Burn me. Hurt me. Leave me_.

Castiel could have asked God the same thing. But he had been an angel long enough to understand a few things too. First, that if blame could be put on Dean for breaking under all the wrath of hell – and to break a righteous man, Lilith could not have subject him to anything less than that – then blame could also be put on the angels for failing to get to him in time. Dean's task was to hold on, and Castiel's task was to reach him. It was a shared failure. Secondly, God made redemption possible for the both of them, and that was the beauty of this curse. Castiel was assigned to Dean on Earth to help him. And t_he righteous man who begins it... is the only one who can finish it_. If Dean is the only one who can end this, then God had given him the exclusive chance to save himself. They both had the chance to make up for errs.

"It's not blame that falls on you, Dean," Castiel said, even as he knew that he would not be listened to, that the hunter had already become his own judge, "It's _fate_. The righteous man who begins it... is the only one who can finish it. _You_ have to stop it."

"Lucifer?" Dean asked, disbelieving, "The apocalypse? What does that mean?"

Castiel turned away. He didn't have all the answers, he couldn't even offer false comfort. He had nothing much to give, and heaven, heaven was still silent...

"Hey!" Dean demanded, his voice rising, undoubtedly painfully, so even more undoubtedly desperately, "Don't you go disappearing on me you son-of-a-bitch, what does that mean?"

"I don't know--"

"Bull!"

"I don't," Castiel insisted, wishing the other to calm, to rest, to gain his strength back, "Dean, they don't tell me much. I know our fate rests with you."

"Then you guys are screwed," Dean declared with simple finality, and his voice had taken on a tone profoundly unwelcome. It was nakedly broken. He's been broken for awhile, but now the resistance, the indignation, the _fight_ had gone out of him. He could not even find the inclination to pretend.

"I can't do it, Cas," Dean confessed, "It's too big. Alistair was right. I'm not all here, I'm not str-" he stammered, hesitating because this was the one thing he could never say, "I'm not strong enough."

The pause after the admission was weighty; weighter than all the silences Castiel had ever endured in that room. This was Dean, decidedly defeated.

"I guess I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be," he said, and Castiel could hear the tears lodged in that broken voice, breaking further. This was a battered soul, shriveling.

"Find someone else. It's not me."

* * *

It had been a dismissal, hadn't it?

Or maybe, knowing his aversion to assertiveness lately, more of a request, or a plea.

_Find someone else._

_Go away._

_Leave me alone_.

But Castiel didn't. And so Dean alternately pretended to be asleep and pretended that Castiel was not there. His chest burned with restraint as he tried to keep from weeping or coughing. The angel remained silent on the seat beside him, pretending too, not to notice.

That damn room was like a stage; pretend, pretend, everyone pretending. When Castiel left and Sam came in, Sam was someone else too, Sam with his secrets and trying to be_ Sammy_ again, all the while refusing to talk to Dean about some things. Sam was as precocious as always, though. He's been lying, pretending for _weeks_ now, ahead of everyone else.

_Dean, I'm not keeping secrets!_

_Whatever..._

His damn room was like an amateur stage. Like someone putting _Groundhog Day_ up in high school or something. People in, out, same kind of different, over and over...

When the angel left, Sam came in.

When Sam left, the angel came in.

It went on for hours or days, indiscriminate. His chest tightened all the more, and his breaths came in harsher and harder. It was a damn good excuse not to say anything.

Dean kept his failures and apprehensions to himself, and suspected the angel hadn't told Sam yet either. He kept quiet, chocked it up to his damaged voice, damaged chest. Should have mentioned his damaged head, his damaged soul, his damaged everything.

His fever rose, and the congestion in his lungs and throat worsened. Sam was worried, he could tell, but again, he had that pretend-thing going and he would just smile at Dean reassuringly.

It wasn't working very well.

Dean's skin was on fire, and he hated that because the fire was going to burn out his mask, show everyone the fraud that he was, show everyone the monster that he was. But everyone else got to keep their pretensions and masks and meatsuits on. Not fucking fair. Everyone's gonna see he's a monster. Everyone's gonna see he's weak. Everyone's gonna know that all this shit is his fault...

_My face is burning off_...

Indiscriminate day, unknown hour, same players, same scene, kind of different, and cool hand pressed gently against his burning cheek.

"Oh god," Sam breathed, and Dean knew then and there that Sam saw, Sam saw he was a monster, because his face was hot and the skin was melting right off, "Oh god, Dean... Help! I need some help in here!"

It was so darn hot, his chest felt heavy, and his brother had just seen what kind of a monster he really was. The room began to spin, or maybe that was him, running away from all this bullcrap. Running as fast as his legs could carry him, weaving so that the ones running after him – screaming Sam included- couldn't catch up. The world was a blur, indistinct around him. He was going so fast the colors and the shapes melded and blurred and coalesced to black.

* * *

Dean was burning up.

It was only the Winchesters who could attach several dire variations to the meaning of this; his mother burned on the ceiling of his nursery room. His girlfriend burned in his apartment. They burned corpses for a living. His father burned in hell. His brother too. _He_ was burned _out_. The fever-thing? The illness-thing? It was, in their world, the last variation when it comes to saying that something was burning.

But his hand against Dean's furnace-face, and there was just no two ways about it. _Burn_. His skin could have scalded, his skin could have scarred. And, hours later, Sam could still feel that mark on his palm, like a tattoo.

Dean had been ill for days, to both their miseries because Dean had always been better at taking care of Sam and Sam had always been better at being taken care of by Dean than the other way around. It was the very fabric of their relationship, forged that night he'd been shoved as a bundle into his older brother's arms, and Dean had shielded him from smoke and flame and took him to safety.

It was funny, how he only knew about that a couple of years ago. That it had been to take him away and save him. His older brother had been four years old, must have been scared and confused, but took to the task because someone else depended on him now. Sam could imagine he's felt like this since; Dean scared about Sam hunting, Dean scared about Sam and his abilities, Dean scared about what his father asked him to do about Sam... Dean scared, and Dean still moving on, because Sam needed him.

_It's my turn, big brother_, Sam thought. And damned if he wasn't scared too. But that's all right. He can live with scared, and he can trudge on too. _Trying to be just like my big brother_...

Dean had kept his own secrets to protect Sam. Sam can do that. Dean had done some pretty terrible things to save Sam – _It just uh... it scares me sometimes_, he had said – Sam can do that too.

But he was pretty damn new at this.

So when he placed his hand on a disoriented Dean's face, felt the heat like fire licking at his fingers, and Dean's eyes rolled back, and he became even more limbless on that bed, Sam cried out for help again.

He'll get better at this looking-after thing, but this time, he cried out for help again.

* * *

They switched his room, and Dean ended up on a lonely floor with more restrictions than his older one, and someone would bully Sam out at certain hours, and for some reason, Castiel did not come as much anymore.

One night, he woke to find himself dizzied and alone. He was burning up, maybe not thinking straight, maybe thinking straight for the first time in a long time.

It was so damn hot he thought he was back in the Pit.

_Hot._

_Burning_.

_Alone_.

He realized that even without Sam to remind him of his weakness and even without Castiel to remind him of his failure, there was still no escape from despair, because he still had himself.

There was no escape, not while he was with people and not while he was alone.

Not in wakefulness or in sleep.

Not even in life or death.

Awake he remembered, and asleep he dreamed.

Dead he was tortured, raised alive he was torn by guilt, alive he was worn and frayed by work to repair the damages of his sins, never stopping until he won or until he died.

He imagined it could thereafter start all over again; he would work until he dropped and died, where he would be tortured in a hell he now deserved. He would be raised back to life because no one else could fix the mess he made, and alive he would work to make up for his sins, work until he died and went to hell, hell where there was torture, brought back to life to work... death, hell, torture, life, death, torture, life... over and over...

There was _no escape_.

The idea was paralyzing, made him feel like a scared kid standing stock-still and peeing his damn pants right on the streets. There was no place to move, nothing else to think about, nothing else to be done. Deer in the damned headlights.

He spent days in the hospital like that; staring, feigning sleep, not wanting to move or speak or do anything. He had become devoid of ambition, robbed of desire, and the fire was eating him up, just burning him from the inside going out. He couldn't get two thoughts straight, aside from _fire _and _escape_.

The television was off, the chagrined-offering of skin mags (_the most of an attempt at humor jumpy old Sammy could make lately_) untouched, and the iPod his brother had brought, bearing his music now too aside from Sam-crap, was numbly ignored. Wanting things was damn tiring. He could just sit here 'til he burned and died. He could be dead 'til he was tortured. Tortured 'til he was resurrected. He could be resurrected to work 'til he died again. And all of it all over again.

His life had become fucking fruitless.

It takes days, or maybe just hours, or maybe just moments; it was hard to tell the meshing of night and day in this impotent room, but the feeling inexplicably _turns_.

And from mind-whited paralysis, it becomes aflame with kinetic, restless recklessness. To _hell_ with life and death. To _hell _with it all. He was not alive, he was not dead. Wherever this was, he did not like it here anymore.

"I'm out," he said experimentally, his brutally broken voice carrying in the empty, stock-still room. He let the words hang in the air, imagined them hovering over his head like wispy tendrils of smoke, moving upward, dissipating.

He reached - quite casually - for the bleeping machines around him. He'd been in hospitals enough to know how to keep the damn things from alerting the docs and nurses if something in his damned broken body fucks up.

The machines died in a sighing, tired whir. They sounded resigned, like they knew what he was planning to do.

The lights on the machine screens dimmed to nothing, leaving the night-darkened hospital room to the mercy of the dull glow of the moon seeping from the world outside, and the lighting from the quiet corridors of the hospital a half-shut door away.

He sighed, and took the nasal cannula from his face. Damn thing's been bothering him since they pulled him from the vent and switched him to it. It was itchy and uncomfortable. And the pissiest thing of all about it was that he felt like he was being latched to this stupid situation by that damn thing. No escape, as long as he had that on, the damn thing keeping him tethered to this life.

He tossed it to the floor, somewhere nice and awkward, like the space between bed and nightstand, where his arm couldn't reach, because he was feeling spiteful and committed and about all this.

He sighed, already dizzy with excitement and exertion and the pointed lack of air. He was on the damn thing for a reason after all, wasn't he? He closed his eyes against the spinning room. He'll be outta here soon enough.

He wondered if angels were watching over him.

He wondered why no one was stopping him.

Maybe he deserved to die.

_Not _that he expressly wanted to die, not really. He just wanted _out_, so it's not really suicide. Not really. If he lived then maybe it's a sign. If he ended up a vegetable from brain damage, awesome – not alive, not dead. If he died, well... he died. _Whatever_.

He felt hot and sick and reckless and adrift, and all he wanted was to let the wind blow, and see where the story goes from here. They needed to move on, he was sick of this page.

* * *

_Wake._

_Move._

_Fight_...

Sam shot up awake in the lonely motel room, and already inexplicably had his hands reaching for the Impala's keys on the nightstand. He was not surprised to find Castiel there, standing and looking at him expectantly, the dim glow of the lamp – which he knew for certain he had shut off before going to sleep – casting shadows on his face.

"Your brother needs you," Castiel said, and just like that – a rush of the wind and the sound of flapping wings – Sam found himself standing right outside Dean's door, Impala's keys uselessly in hand, leaning against the doorframe – _his knees would not hold_ – watching as his brother's body arched form his bed at the force of that dreaded electricity prying him back from death.

It felt like a nightmare, because they've stood here before and he's always _always_ hated it. Him on the outside, Dean waging his own battles inside.

Paddles against damaged, constrained chest. Body rising from the bed, like a soul being wrenched from one place to another. It reminded Sam of that time, after the accident, when doctors had to bully their way into getting Dean to live. It reminded Sam of that time the hellhounds had taken his brother away. There was always a sense of violence and struggle, this life-and-death thing. Bodies arching away from gravity, gravity pulling back. Breaths forced, parts pushed, things injected, things shoved, things taken...

Just... _Violence_.

They get him back.

Someone always gets Dean back to him, somehow.

Sam stepped back from the door and leaned against the wall, letting himself slide to his rump on the floor. He just sank there, weary and relieved and still shaking in fear. A shadow loomed over him, and Dean's doctor said they needed to Talk_._

* * *

_2005_

* * *

_In the days after _she _died, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would die soon too. It was the only thought that offered him any relief. He was just so damn _sure _that he was almost dead, and that was a good thing. That can save him. It was a relieving thought. It was the only thing that could help him find sleep at night._

_Dean was there with him, this weird shadow of his that he couldn't shake. Like a PA or a conscience or a puppy or a pitbull or... whatever he needed, Dean gave. Water and food, and research material and bullets and guns and knives, and even the remote control. He was never left alone but never pressed to speak, never imposed on for anything._

_The one time Dean had gone away from him in the middle of those indistinguishable days, he had plied Sam with sleeping pills and left for... wherever. Sam couldn't bring himself to wonder and anyway, Dean was back just before Sam woke, and Sam found a neat, unobtrusive pile of things from his apartment on a corner of the motel room. His clothes were there (newly-washed and not-at-all reeking of smoke), some photographs. His school books. The fire had taken her away from him, but not the memories of the life that they had there. Un-fucking-fortunately._

_Sam felt a surge of anger, inexplicable and helpless, directed at his brother. Dean _dared _touch these things​, and worse, bring them back? Back, as if he could just pick up life all over again? Besides, there was one more theory to all this that none of them had openly discussed. Maybe it was the reemergence of Dean in his life that brought this danger into the home he had made with _her_. Maybe it was Dean's fault._

_But then again, he's been having dreams about _her_. He _knew _what this was. He damn well _knew_ this was going to happen. All of this was is fault. His fault. His fault..._

_"I can get rid of them," Dean said, quickly, quietly, already making a move toward the things when he saw Sam's face and mildly panicked. There was a time in their lives when they knew exactly what to do for each other, and doubt and unhappiness streaked across Dean's screaming gaze when he realized he'd miscalculated or worse, had only given Sam more grief._

_"I won't need the books," Sam said, quietly, taking pity on him. The feeling was alien, and the first time he'd thought of anyone else apart from _her_ or himself since _she_ died. _

_"Sure you will," Dean said after a hesitant beat, relaxing a little._

_"Thanks, but no_."

_"Okay..."_

_"Okay."_

_"The clothes," Dean said next, gulping, "You look kinda funny in mine. I took back what I could, and uh... nothing smells like smoke, I promise. I got the good detergent, you know, and the softener's supposed to be..." his face flushed, a little, "Anyway, I washed it twice. We can toss the clothes out later if you like, after we buy you new stuff whenever you're up for it but I thought, you know, in the meantime, you can use a few things and--"_

_"That's fine, Dean," Sam sighed, willing to save Dean from the embarrassing ramble he had stepped into, "Thanks, man."_

_Dean smiled at him, lopsided and clumsy. It was... a little bit warming, and the thought disarmed Sam enough that he suddenly wanted to cry._

_He kinda did._

_Dean crossed the space between them in two wide, determined strides. He grabbed his brother by the shoulders, and it was almost violent, how he pressed Sam's face against his chest, wordless._

_"It's my fault," Sam sobbed against Dean's shoulder, "It's my fault."_

_"No it's not, Sammy," Dean said, "We'll get the damn bastards who did this, but don't you go on thinking that."_

_"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Sam said, imagining it sounded incoherent and breathless, and also imagining his brother also understood what he had said somehow._

_"We'll take care of this, Sammy," Dean said, "We'll take care of this, I promise."_

* * *

_The lowest point he got to was after _her_ funeral._

_Everything was his fault, he had been the danger to _her _and in danger, he had failed to save _her_. And he had to face up to _her _family and _her _friends, all looking at him like he had lost the most when this was all his fault._

_He stood by Dean, both Winchester brothers wearing dated, cheap rental suits. Dean had borrowed them from some bit-shop somewhere, looking chagrined and making disclaimers, but Sam had warmed up again, feeling his older brother's efforts._

_Dean stood back after the service, letting Sam be surrounded by family and friends. But he felt like a fraud, and seemingly just minutes into speaking to this person and that – he raised his eyes up for rescue and _just like that_! found his brother's steady gaze on him._

_Dean swooped in like an avenging angel, and Sam was moved out of there in a shuffle of clothing and quiet footsteps on grass, sounding like feathers ruffling in the wind. And he was suddenly somewhere else._

_Back in their motel room, away from the watching eyes and the pitying stares._

_All he had was his face in the bathroom mirror, looking grave and forbidding. And he came to the realization that with people or alone, there was no escape, no escape from his guilt and his despair._

_Maybe he can just sleep this off, and wake up and everything was different._

Escape_._

_Let's go to the next chapter. Let's hit the next page. Let's just get away._

_He made a grab for the sleeping pills Dean kept behind the bathroom mirror. The rattle was unmistakable as he dropped half the bottle into his determined hands and suddenly, Dean was by the door, watching him with anger barely veiled in his clear eyes._

_"I just wanna sleep," Sam lied, quietly._

_"Don't treat me like an idiot, okay?" Dean said mildly, but with quiet lethality. He reached over and took the bottle from Sam's slack hand. One by one, he plucked off the pills from his brother's palm, looking green as he made a quick count of just how much his brother had been thinking of taking, "You don't get to do this to me, Sammy. Think about that, the next time you wanna try something like this."_

* * *

2009

* * *

One of Samuel Winchester's worst flaws was that he constantly sinned in Anger.

He thrived in it, the wrath and rage and the permissive sinning accompanying it making him stronger, always stronger. Anger at the loss of Jessica. Anger against his murderer. Anger at Dean's death. Anger at himself. As if he considered unfortunate events as a personal affront.

He tended to exude menace, restraining and all at once building up rage when he was quiet and pacing, aching for a fight, fists clenching at his sides. This was Sam at his most dangerous, Sam at his most reckless.

Castiel watched him from where the angel stood by the door of Dean's room, seen but unnoticed, or probably pointedly ignored. Sam was busy waiting for Dean to wake up. Sam was busy _aching _for Dean to wake up.

The moment those sunken eyes fluttered open, Sam hovered over him, scowling.

"You awake?" he asked, without preamble.

Dean caught the danger; it was hard not to, when Sam was pulling absolutely no punches. He took a deep measured breath, oxygen mask fogging. Castiel watched, and marveled at how Dean had asked about his responsibility in starting the apocalypse with more bravery than he was showing now, cowing and shameful before Sam's wrath.

"You don't get to do this to me you son-of-a-bitch," Sam said, "Think about that, the next time you wanna try something like this."

Dean gulped, opened his mouth to try to say something. His hands and arms jerked to move, as if he wanted to put the mask aside. But they were restrained, on padded straps against the bed. Sam had allowed them. And Sam would keep them there as long as he wanted. Dean looked up at him wit despairing eyes.

"They stay on whenever I'm away, brother," Sam seethed, "You wanna try shit like that, you have to know we're both in on this. You wanna kill yourself? You're gonna have to find the goddamn balls to do it in front of me."

Tears were pooling on Dean's openly-devastated eyes, and he blinked at them defiantly. Sam set his jaws, his look softening, mirroring his heart, such that he turned away from his brother and walked away.

He shouldered his way past Castiel, but the angel followed after him after a moment of indecision. Sam kept on walking, _stalking _away, aimless, but determined to get away.

"What?" he scoffed at the angel, not even bothering to face him, "You're gonna tell me that was uncalled for? Tell you what, Castiel. You can shove it. I know I hurt him. I can fix him later. Right now, I'll say and do anything I need to, to keep him alive."

"His despair stems not merely from having been tortured, Sam," Castiel said, "Or for having done so himself. I am not offering you excuses, just reasons."

"What are you talking about?"

"And it is written: That the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in hell," Castiel said, softly, watching the meaning of the words dawn on Sam's face, "As he breaks, so shall it break."

Sam closed his eyes, misery dizzying and closing in all around him.

"God..."

"Alistair told him," Castiel said, "In the midst of torture, Alistair told him. He asked me, and men like him... men like him deserve the truth, don't you think?"

It was a damned loaded question, and they both knew it.

"You should have lied," Sam said, darkly.

"That's what you would have done," Castiel said, helplessly. And surprising even himself.

Sam snorted, and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"He needs you," Castiel said.

"I know," Sam said, "Damnitt, I know. Why do you think I'm--"

"He's not the only reason you do the things you do," Castiel said, "Be fair, and see so. But I cannot expect any sort of admission from you, the same way you cannot expect me to believe otherwise. And so we cannot speak of this now and expect to resolve it. What you have to take away from all this, is what to do now.

"Do you know why he hates your powers so much?" Castiel asked, "You know what that makes you become, and you know what he is supposed to do once you've taken that dark path. You disrespect him by putting him in that position where he would one day have to harm you, or at the cost of himself and at the cost of others, _not _to harm you. We both know which path he will take. And so you have to know: if you sin, he will sin all the more.

"The righteous man who begins it is the only one who can end it," Castiel said, "Only Dean can fend off the apocalypse. But I think we both know he won't, if it means harming you. You bring him to defeat. You bring him to damnation."

"You're wrong," Sam insisted, "I know the difference between right and wrong, Castiel. We're not just made of flesh and blood, that's God's line, isn't it? We have free will, all that crap. I can take this curse, and I can make it right. I can help him, he doesn't need to be as strong as he used to be, he doesn't have to be anything he doesn't want to be. I can save him. I can save all of us."

"Your thoughts are dangerous," Castiel said, not knowing what else he can say.

"You keep telling him to fix things, to stop things," Sam pointed out, "You always forget to tell him he's not alone."

**To be concluded in an Epilogue and Afterword...**

Thanks for reading and don't forget to drop me a line to tell me what you thought, if you have time :)


	3. Chapter 3

Author:Mirrordance

Title:**As He Breaks**

Summary:Sam ran to Dean and screamed for help, screamed and cried right from the deepest parts of him, as if those who could hear could fix everything of his brother, body and soul. Tag to the irresistible 4.16.

" " "

**As He Breaks**

" " "

**Epilogue**

" " "

Set During "_It's a Terrible Life_"

" " "

_Are you ready to stand up, and be who you really are?_

Zachariah looked at him pointedly, expectantly.

But the question was, always has been, who was he, really? John Winchester's Soldier? But John Winchester was dead and this soldier fucked up the world. Sammy's Older Brother? But Sam had taken it upon himself to do whatever it was he felt necessary anyway, big brother's fears and anger be damned. Some sort of a Casanova? But fooling around with women hasn't been as fun as it used to be because he'd already had himself an angel, not to mention he was too tired or too busy or too screwed in the head to enjoy it lately. Proud owner of the Imapala was great but obviously lacking. Plain, straightforward _hunter_ he doesn't think he's ever really been... he was on the hunt to avenge his mom, help his dad, save his brother. If doing all that meant being a fireman, he'd be a fireman. If doing all that meant being Dean Smith, he'd be Dean Smith. He'd be an accountant or a gardener or a gigolo or whatever it was he needed to be, if it meant he could save his family.

And seriously? Was the angel's best selling proposition angled toward '_There are worse fates than yours?_'

Dean was going back to hunting and this crazy anti-apocalypse campaign, there was no two ways about that, it was how he was made. To deal with _what's in front of him_. What was in front of him was the apocalypse he helped start. What was in front of him was the apocalypse only he could end. But more than that, more than any of that, what was in front of him was a troubled, overburdened kid brother who convinced himself that he had to be bad just to save Dean and help Dean save the world. That was what's in front of him before anything else, and _Sammy_ especially he would never, _ever_ back away from.

"Where's my brother?" he asked, speaking of the d– _never mind_.

"Downstairs," Zachariah replied, "Getting escorted out of the premises by trembling security. He told you he didn't like his cubicle, Dean, but he _hated _his telephone even more."

Dean's eyes narrowed in confusion but let it slip, waving around the room, "What does he know about all this?"

"Sam Wesson is just... Sam Wesson right now," Zachariah replied, "He'll be privy to more, as soon as I let Castiel restore him."

"It's uh..." Dean hesitated, "It's weird, how he uh... he felt more wrong about all this than I did. It wasn't always like that. He used to be the one to want to get away from hunting. It was hunting that used to feel iffy. Now though... he just felt _wrong_ about this normal crap."

"He is a sharp one," Zachariah conceded, "I wondered about that myself. But Dean... did you expect him to remain the same after you were gone? Much to ask for, that. You undervalue your place in his life. As you undervalue yourself against everyone else's lives."

"Well I gotta offset these good looks with humility."

"I am serious, Dean."

"So am--"

"You think you're a failure for giving in to Alistair's tortures," Zachariah cut him off, "Especially alongside daddy and his one hundred years. Always trying to live up to the old man, huh, Dean? Well let me tell you something."

"I'm not talking about this--"

"You keep thinking you failed because you're not as strong as him," Zachariah went on, "But isn't there also even the _remotest_ possibility that maybe he wasn't as righteous? It's all fate, Dean. Maybe you're not as strong. But maybe he wasn't as righteous. That first seal was yours to break, as surely as all this misery is yours to end. You will do whatever you have to. Now tell me: Are you ready to stand up, and be who you really are?"

Dean stared at Zachariah for a long time. _Of course_ his father was righteous, what the heck was this guy saying? But for the sake of argument, he took the point in as a _remote_ possibility, _fine_. But righteous or not, he was damaged. _Damaged_. Everything about his life was damaged.

_How does anyone expect something broken to work the same way again?_

You don't!

He pinched at the bridge of his nose, thinking, and found his mind drifting toward Sam. The one guy in the entire world who can make him change his mind about all this was the one who believed the least in him right now...

_Winchesters being Winchesters, they ran their mouths and spat at each other a lot. They were a father and brothers, after all, the quarters were always tight, and maybe it was even fun sometimes. They seldom apologized to each other; either the fight was too trifling and irrelevant, or it was too huge and irreparable that there was just no point. Move on, next page._

_The trifles included music and food, general mess and laundry, about who did what at a hunt, or the remote control. The massive breaches included Stanford and demon blood. The freshest irrevocable wound was attempted suicide because, since there was only two of them left in the world, it was undoubtedly _abandonment _too._

_Sam didn't come in to see Dean in the hospital for two days, probably to cool off a little. Dean didn't mind so much. He needed the time too. He laid there thinking, suffering the restraints at his wrists, accepting it like some sort of penance. _

_There was a part of him that wondered if Sam would even come back. Maybe it was for the best. He was a liability. He held Sam back. Maybe this was for the best..._

_But Sam always finds something inside him that takes him back to Dean, something that opens up his heart. Sam had opened his door in California and re-joined the hunt. Sam had stepped out of his demons from the death of Jessica to fight the good fight with his brother. Sam had raged against Dean himself after the death of their father and kept him sane, kept him alive. Even whenever Sam left or was abducted, life colluded to bring them back together. And when it was Dean in danger, Sam never gave up on him – _Watch me, _Sam had said. And when Dean gained back his memories from Tessa about what happened at the hospital after the accident, the brutal memories were warmed only by visions of Sam sitting by his bed, talking to him. It was Sam with the Magical Talking Hands. Sam won't give up on him. He never has before, and he wouldn't now... would he? _

_There was hope there, Dean found. Maybe there's something in Sam that would turn dark side. _Maybe_. But Sam will always find something inside him, Dean knew, something inside that would bring him home. Dean just had to... be around for that. _

_Sure enough, the Sasquatch kind-of just... appeared by the door of his room. Dean was having 'dinner' just before the end of visiting hours. He was seated up and propped against his pillows, picking at the stale mush that was the full gamut of what his throat could stand to swallow, when that shaggy head and earnest face looked at him uneasily, unsure of his welcome._

_Sam looked at him with a little bit of fear, now. Like he couldn't be let out of the Sasquatch's sight. And surely, Sam looked at him with considerable anger too, veiled by a strained effort to make him feel he's not alone. But the anger was there because, Dean realized belatedly, not only was to try to escape this life tantamount to leaving Sam, it was a clear implication that he didn't think Sam or anybody else could help him. It was a mistrust of Sam's abilities to protect and save him._

_"Feeling better?" Sam asked._

_"Yeah," Dean replied, and his brother stepped inside the room, hesitating between sitting on the bed or the sick green chair. Dean knocked him out of his misery and shifted aside in welcome. Sam sat by his forearm, right at the very edge. But at least he was there, and he was fairly near._

_"I'd offer you some," Dean said of the indescribable mush, "But I think someone ate it, regurgitated it, and then served it."_

_"Couldn't be worse than the usual mess you eat," Sam said, his cheek dimpling a little. Dean smiled at that. No apologies, move on, right?_

_"I didn't want to die, you know," Dean said, suddenly, surprising himself. Wanting to get this out of the way. But Sam looked so darn uneasy, this scared-anger struggling under layers and layers of pretend that it kind of just popped out._

_"I was sick," Dean went on, embarrassed, scratching his neck, "Wasn't thinking straight. I just wanted out of wherever--"_

_"Geez, Dean!" Sam exclaimed, grabbing for his older brother's IV'd hand. There were deep, dark bruises on his wrist, "What the hell?"_

_"I didn't try to get out of them I swear," Dean muttered, embarrassed as he pulled his hand away, "They said I kind of... move around a lot in my sleep."_

_Which was a euphemism for the restraints reminding him of the bondage of hell, hell taking him in his nightmares, and the sleeping struggle that had bruised and skinned his wrists. Sam deciphered this easily, and the thing that Dean hated most streaked across Sam's already conflicted scared-angry gaze: _Pity_._

_"I wasn't thinking, God, Dean," he said, "I'm so--"_

_"It was the right decision at the time," Dean snapped at him, before he could curb his temper. _Don't you dare feel sorry for me...

_"Dean--"_

_"Shut up, Sam," Dean growled, angrily shoving some mush-food into his mouth. His scowl only deepened at the foulness of it. "So. When can I get out of here?"_

_"Not anytime soon and I mean it," Sam told him, eyes steely, "No AMA's this time. You gotta... you gotta take better care of yourself."_

_"I take care of--"_

_"No you don't," Sam argued, "And you can't afford not to anymore."_

_Dean watched his brother's face for a long moment. Realization dawned. _

_"Why?" Dean snapped, "Because if the guy who started the apocalypse gets the chickenpox then we're all fucked? Because it's all my fault and it's all on me? Castiel has a big goddamn mouth."_

_"No, it's not that," Sam snapped back, "If you're hurt, I can't focus on what _I_ have to do."_

_"What the hell does that mean?!"_

_"Nothing," Sam said, pursing his lips, realizing his anger had taken the thinking away from his mouth._

_"No Sam," Dean said, "You tell me: what the hell does that mean?"_

_"You can't do this alone," Sam said, "This last..." _suicide attempt_, Dean filled in "...episode proved that. You need my help. You're not alone in this, Dean. I can help you, let me help you. But I can't do that if I'm worrying about you."_

_"You don't have to worry--"_

_"But I do," Sam insisted, "You're my brother. I just do, all right? Let me do the work, for now, all right? Just focus on getting better."_

_"I'm fine," Dean growled._

_"You are _not_ fine," Sam said, "The drinking? The endless hunts? Getting hurt? And now this last..."_

_The repeated hesitation made Dean's temper flare. "Suicide attempt!" he exclaimed, making Sam flinch, "For God's sake, knock us both out of our miseries and call a spade a spade, dude! I told you, I was sick and I wasn't thinking straight."_

_"You're still sick."_

_Dean stared at him for a long moment. "You're meaning sick-in-the-head-sick."_

_Sam set his jaws, and didn't bother to deny it. "You got back from hell and torture, Dean. You can't expect to come out unscathed."_

_"That doesn't mean I need you to go evil just to help me pay my debts!" Dean pointed out, pressing his fingers over his eyes. God, this was giving him a headache._

_"Need me to call someone?" Sam asked, sounding panicked again._

_"No, I need you to shut up," Dean said, looking at his brother. He took a deep, calming breath. "Sam. _Sammy_. I'll stay a bit longer here, all right? Just like you want me to. But don't you go off doing things we'd both regret. I might need help, but not that kind."_

_"You're so convinced I can't tell right from wrong," Sam said, looking disappointed and profoundly unhappy, "You're so convinced I'm going to turn evil or something."_

_"You're so convinced I can't save us without it," Dean said, just as aggrieved, "So now what do we do?"_

They left the conversation roundabouts of there, and Dean noted that that was the last he could remember of the hospital. He fell asleep when Sam left, and woke up as someone else.

"My brother doesn't trust me anymore," Dean said, quietly, "Doesn't trust my calls, always says I'm running when in my head it's a strategic withdrawal or something. He doesn't trust that I can do this without him having to use his powers and risk going dark. He doesn't... he doesn't trust me anymore. This latest..." _what had been Sam's word for it? _"... _episode_ of mine, from the hospital... it kinda made things worse.

"I can't..." Dean rambled on, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say to Zachariah, "I can't do this, if he's not on board with me. I can't do this, if he doesn't believe I can, and just goes off to do whatever to fix things on his own. I can't. That said... I'll go back in line, but you gotta do something for me."

"We cannot restore your brother's faith in you perforce, Dean," Zachariah said.

"You can take memories away," Dean said, motioning for Dean's Smith's office, "And give 'em back, right? Give Sam Wesson back everything that was Sammy Winchester's. Everything, except for that night. That night with me and the hospital trying to... to... _escape_."

"And you're back in the fold?"

"Work me like a dog."

"All right," Zachariah said, lips curving to a smile, "But I have to tell you keeping that memory from Sam is not going to restore his faith in you, Dean. Not like how it was. It's not that easy."

"I can live with that," Dean said, "I just need him to stop looking at me like he's just waiting for me to have a nervous breakdown. I'm dented, but I ain't _that_ broke yet, you know. I need him to let me out of his sight sometimes, to stop questioning everything I decide, always underlying it with me being scared or me running. I can't do what I have to do, not when he's looking at me like I've already failed. So you gotta do this for me."

"Consider it done."

* * *

The elevator door opened, and Dean was unsurprised to find Castiel standing there. He smiled at the angel wryly, and stepped inside.

"Back in possession of yourself, I see," Castiel said, as the floors ticked on.

It was a loaded question. Back from being Dean Smith, surely. And back to being, _more-or-less_, the Dean Winchester with more kick.

"You had to call in the big guns, huh?" Dean asked, "What? Couldn't handle us?"

"You are a handful," Castiel conceded, making the hunter smirk, "It is good to see the light back in your eyes, Dean."

"Save it for the health club, pal," Dean said, catching himself and blinking. "Declined retention rate," he murmured to himself, finding he still knew exactly what it meant and what to do about it. And finding that he was still concerned about it...

"Yes," Castiel said, reading his perplexed expression, "Dean Smith is real. All of this is real. Your knowledge is real. It is another life you really could have sunk into. And still could, in the future."

"Huh," he said, and had to bit his tongue to keep from asking if his portfolio really was in the gutter. He was pretty sure of the answer, and that really _sucks_.

"So at the end of all this," Dean said, "Sam has a normal life to return to, if he wanted. Sam Wesson _exists: _social security, health plan, et cetera?"

"Pretty much," Castiel said, "Dean Smith too."

"I'm..." Dean hesitated, "I'm glad. Never thought I'd say this, but I'm thinking maybe he should have a chance to get out of the life, if he ever wanted to again."

"He will," Castiel said.

"How about you?" Dean asked.

"Hm?"

"'_Back in possession of yourself_?'" Dean clarified.

"What do you mean?"

"You kinda looked off your game," Dean said, "Looking up at heaven a lot, like you were asking, '_Dude: what the heck are you thinking now_?'"

Castiel pursed his lips in thought, "I still don't have the answers. But I do not doubt, now, that you and your brother have some of them."

"I have answers God doesn't?" Dean smirked, "I'm flattered."

"God through his vessels; like you," Castiel said.

The elevator chimed to indicate the landing at the lobby of the Sandover building.

"Welcome back, Dean," Castiel said, not-quite willing to say anything about the faith-thing. He had already vanished by the time the doors opened.

_I'm not back just yet_, Dean thought, stepping out of the elevator. He looked around, and the first thing he could see was his brother, a head above everyone else, being ushered out the door.

He strode toward them purposefully, Sam looming larger and larger the closer he came upon them.

"Hey!" he called out, and Sam turned to face him, eyes _completely_ self-aware now. A little bit more veiled and clouded than Sam Wesson's, but this was his brother now for sure.

"Dean!" he exclaimed, looking relieved.

"Let's get outta here," Dean said, pushing his way past the guards and grabbing his brother by the arm.

_Now_ he was home, and everything else they can figure out from here.

**The End**

April 12, 2009

* * *

**Afterword**

* * *

**Contents**

**I. Holy Crap, This Episode!**

**II. The Characters**

**A. The Brothers Winchester: One Faded, the Other Blind**

**1. The Increasingly Fascinating Sammy**

**2. Dean: The Old, the New, and the Post-New**

**B. Castiel**

**III. Massive Thanks and Replies**

**IV. Future Project Update: **_**Heaven and Earth**_

* * *

**I. Holy Crap, This Episode!**

As I mentioned in my Author's Note at the start of _As He Breaks_, this episode bowled me over so much that everything else I was working on kind of just fell flat and died haha. _On the Head of a Pin _is undoubtedlya series classic to me for several reasons: (1) it developed the two central characters in that we discovered something new about each of them (Dean's role in the apocalypse and Sam's new little kink); (2) it changed our views about the two growing characters in the series (Castiel and his doubts, and Uriel's betrayal); (3) they fleshed out one of the best villains in the show's history – Alastair - with a stellar, creepy performance; and (4) They mashed everything together and the feeling was just this _massive_ collision. Anytime I think they couldn't possibly win us over anymore, something like this comes out and there's a fresh surge of love for this show all over again, haha.

That being said... I am rabid-fan-girl enough to want to have seen: (1) the brotherly moments in the hospital (although arguably this may have been used as a literary device; emphasizes their growing distance); (2) up to now I still don't know the extent of knowledge Sam has about Dean's role in breaking the first seal or Uriel's betrayal and how he would have felt about all that; (3) I would have loved to see a firmer connection between 4.16 and 4.17. I guess that's why _As It Breaks _came along, and as I said before, I hope the fic does this insanely good episode a fair turn.

By the way, I'm sure we all know where the fic title came from. I thought it sounded snappy the moment I heard it, haha, but aside from that and more importantly, the story unfolds 'as Dean breaks,' so it's also mostly from Sam and Castiel's perspectives like, what everyone is doing "_as he breaks_."

**II. The Characters**

It being that one of the strongest points of this episode is how potently the characters were portrayed, it really made me think about nuances that I hope I managed to convey. Please note that the explanations below will be featuring some really insightful points from some of those who have reviewed _As He Breaks_. I underlined the reviewers' names so that the perspective is properly attributed and so that if you should be one of them, you get to see your name right away :)

**A. The Brothers Winchester: One Faded, the Other Blind**

- Miyo086 noted what is actually one of my favorite lines in this fic, which is the best way I could endeavor to describe what makes the Winchesters so distant in Season 4. Dean is faded and less noticeable, tarnished and scarred by his time in Hell; while Sam is blinded by his anger and his pain from the time Dean was away. Damaged even after being reunited, the blind can't see what's faded, and so neither of them could reach out to breach the gap. The explanations below will expound on these 'damages' further:

**1. The Increasingly Fascinating Sammy**

I always said I am more of a Dean-girl but Sam-as-I-perceive him is more fascinating to write, haha. Seriously though, he is so amazingly multi-faceted. _On the Head of a Pin_ raised some very sticky Sammy-debates that I evoked in _As He Breaks_:

**a. His Intentions**

- is he really developing his powers to help Dean? This is what we all want to believe, but the 'addiction'-depiction and the triumphant looks and the cold, flat confidence is a little bit scary, not to mention "The Prophet Chuck" has also recently called him out on this.

**b. His Means**

- age-old question that only Kripke and Co. would be ambitious enough to try and tackle on the CW, haha... can something evil be used for good?

I don't have the answer to either, and I guess this is also why, in Chapter 2 of _As He Breaks_, Sam has this debate with Castiel and nothing is resolved. Castiel even tells Sam something like they shouldn't bother debating because Sam won't admit to anything and Castiel cannot believe otherwise. So it's still out there, haha.

My personal perspective? Sam has always tended a little toward the indulged little-brother side, so he's very determined and doesn't take failure very well. He wants challengers squashed, basically, and I like him exactly like that. I think I've depicted this consistently in my other fics:

On Chapter 3 of my very first one, _Things We Know_: "... despite popular belief that Dean was wilier, Sam never lost. Ever."

On Chapter 3 of _The Least I Can Do: _"Sam understood deprivation more than loss. He understood things he never had but had every right to, it was why he was always hungry, always wanting things, always running after things. Dean, on the other hand, understood loss more than deprivation, which was why he was always clinging to what little he had, instead of pursuing the things he didn't."

On Chapter 2 of _Once More_: "The full-throttle determination was once directed at his education or research for a hunt, in butting heads with their dad, in small things like ice cream, a movie, whatever. If Sam wanted something, he just got it. This time around, Dean was college and ice cream all at once, the focus of Sam's unstoppable single-mindedness. It was... kind of overwhelming. He felt like he was being swallowed hole."

In short, haha... he may have started obsessing about (1) getting his brother back from hell; and then (2) helping him with his burden, but it didn't take him too long to be in a position where his love could be taken advantage of, even if he knew the difference between right and wrong.

This is going to be a tricky debate for many fans. Even the reviews from _As He Breaks_ are a fascinating representation of this: there's Mandy saying the problem is Sam wants to be the big bad brother; there's Maz101 talking about Sam's reasoning and at the same time, Castiel calling him out on it; there's Michelle talking about some Sam sympathy and Diane saying Sam's out to save Dean; there's Meggin Lane raising the issue of rationalization and delusion; there's Lisa Paris citing a misguided morality... your inputs are really amazing and perceptive and really got me thinking about (and at times doubting) my own haha!

I guess the conflicting depiction of Sam in _As He Breaks_ represents this character's torn-ness too. Here, we see him old and young, the differences between the two, and of course, the high contrast Castiel observed in Chapter 1, comparing how Sam was in control one moment and sobbing the next, how his hands were adroit one moment and shaking the next, how he looked like an orphan even after dispatching a demon, and so on. Like I said, fun, fun, fun to write haha.

**2. Dean: The Old and the New, and the Post-New**

On of the reasons I felt I had to flesh out _On the Head of a Pin_ can also be attributed to Jensen Ackles' performance. I think this episode just took him to a different plane. Of note to me were the ones with Castiel; in _As He Breaks_, I raised the scene when he was warning the angels that if he went in to torture Alistair they would not like what came back out, and he looked disappointed that they were willing to 'lose' him. And then of course there was that conversation in the hospital. He was also awesome with Alistair, especially when the truth starts to dawn on him about the gravity of his responsibility in the apocalypse. Well-done all around, but then again, I shouldn't really be surprised, haha, these actors know these characters inside-out by now.

That said, however, the massive weightiness of the portrayal of Dean in _On the Head of a Pin_ had to have some sort of a transition for _It's a Terrible Life_, right? There had to be a closer bond between the two episodes, and for me, what was crucial in establishing that was a firmer transition between the down-and-out Dean of _OTHOAP_ and the Dean that Zachariah was courting back into the ranks. I honestly didn't feel that 'there are worse fates than yours' was convincing, haha, but that's just me. I just had to take it back to Sam needing him, which is something I'm far more comfortable with, haha.

There were a number of incarnations of Dean in _As He Breaks_, so I hope they were all still coherently the same guy: the old (the big brother one); the new (the wreck); and the 'post-new' which was a cross between the two.

_As He Breaks_ posited three things about this character which I hope was properly conveyed and is not uncharacteristic:

1. Why He Broke – The 'fate' thing is cop-out-ish, but I couldn't find any other reason to support this other than he might not have been as strong as his dad, but his dad hadn't been as righteous either. That's fair, right? :);

2. Why He Came Back Post-_It's a Terrible Life_ – It's just always going to be about Sam and his family for me, I think. I mentioned in the fic something that some people might disagree with, that he didn't have to be a hunter; hunting was just how he could do what he was supposed to do to help his family; and that

3. He Would Never Hurt Sam, even at the risk to himself or others. I honestly believe that if Sam went dark side, Dean wouldn't be able to do anything to stop him; as Castiel said in _As He Breaks_, Sam can bring Dean to damnation; if he sinned, Dean will sin all the more.

I think these are fairly common perceptions of Dean. Much risky propositions featured in _As He Breaks_ would be:

1. His Capacity for Suicide – This was inspired by the self-loathing of _Heaven and Hell_'s 'How I feel inside me?' and _On the Head of a Pin's _'Why didn't you just leave me there?' I felt it was possible, but _As He Breaks_ still plays it safe on this regard; the Dean portrayed in my fic is one who thinks he didn't really want to die, he just wanted to escape and that he was ill and not thinking straight. I wondered if I would get called out on this issue and was actually a little bit surprised that people didn't find his suicidal attempt implausible enough to bring it to my attention... at least, so far, haha :)

2. Taking Away Sam's Memory of the Suicide Attempt – I think the rationale for this was explained in _As He Breaks_; Dean can't do what he needs to do if Sam doesn't believe in him a little, and that belief was just wiped out by the fear and anger from the suicide attempt. It seems a bit iffy, withholding that kind of information. But I guess I'm hoping it's not out of character considering Dean's _All Hell Breaks Loose_ speech about wanting to keep Sam from some harsh truths, or along _As He Breaks_ Sam did make mention of the 'nice secrets' that they kept from each other to look out for each other. I thought it was fair, not sure if you agree :)

**B. Castiel**

This character's voice is so darn hard to capture but so vital to attempt, given the monumental place he's having in the storyline and the one he earned (via Misha Collins' portrayal of course) in the fandom. Personally, I know I put him in my fics a lot because the faith-aspect of S4 totally absorbs me, and that aspect of the story is primarily represented and moved by this character.

So what does _As He Breaks_ have to say about faith, haha... If you've read my story _Tightrope_ (which is my second favorite piece after _Things We Know_), I talk about faith _a lot_, haha, so I'll try to keep it short here.

I noticed that during _On the Head of a Pin_, Castiel kept looking up, like he was at a loss and looking for an answer, and the entire episode was just full of his uncertainties. The entire episode was tailor-made to rock his world: he lost a valuable ally in Uriel, found himself looking to Anna, watching Sam use his dark powers, getting Dean to torture, etc. I wanted _As He Breaks_ to mirror the uncertainties stemming from _On the Head of a Pin_, so I kept on harping about how heaven was silent, not giving him any answers. I emphasized, however, that his heart was pointing him in an unconventional direction but it was a heart given to him by God, so he could listen to that instead. Generally speaking, I believe in that. You won't always get the answers from faith, but you're gifted with discernment and free will too. And I've always believed that angels could be tested too; in _Tightrope_, I wrote that the test was Castiel's and not Dean's.

Miyo86 had a really interesting comment relating to how I got to semi-resolve Castiel's questions (in Chapter 1, he said something like his heart screamed, and this heart was given to him by his Father). The comment was really perceptive, when you said that Castiel made his own choices but it was still within God's will. That was an incredibly faithful kind of point that really really tickled me. Thank you for sharing that!

On another note, I really enjoy writing conversations between Castiel and Sam, written from an undertone of jealousy and rivalry; I wanted Sam to assert territory over his brother, like a little kid, haha, and at the same time, the angel is also a significant part of Dean's life. I've written their exchanges in my other fics to have that same kind of air. I think it's because fans can get very territorial of the brothers, haha, and the inclusion of new characters are always received warily. Castiel just... _works_, though, but it's still interesting to write Sam feeling a bit off about it.

**III. Massive Thanks and Review Responses**

Once again, thanks loads to all who read, alerted, favorited and especially all who reviewed _As He Breaks_. The reviews are inspiring, uplifting and best of all, they really make me think and hopefully that comes out to make the story better. Thank you for taking the time! Shout out to (and this is in alphabetical order so if I somehow missed you because I got cross-eyed, please call me out on it; everyone who reviews deserves a shoutout :) :

Thanks to: adva, aeri, alliehaliwell, alwaysateen, burblefish, cursedgirl, drkstormynite, deangirl1, eeyore08, grace,jdsreignsupreme, Lisa Paris, masondixon, Meggin Lane, Michelle, mtee1958, ophium, primadonna cat, raven2004, rhino7, rose, snchills, staceyj, techa4ever, ToriTheCritic, xanseviera, Wen1, zubeneschamali, zuimar, and:

To mandy – thanks always for the love, inspiration and chocolate (drool), and for wanting to reco my work; I love getting as many readers as possible and that would just be awesome :)

To phoebe – You noted one of my most favorite Sam quirks in this story: the spooky eye opening thing! The first draft of the scene did not include that, but I just got the inspiration to put in a kind-of casual display of power that felt both darkly satisfying and also morbidly disturbing. Again, your observations are really astute :)

To Rougish Smile – Thank you so much for reading and reviewing through this fic, my other SN fics and my other fandom works! This is really, really awesome of you and I'm always so incredibly happy to run into familiar names and people who share my varied passions. Thank you for taking the time and I look forward to hearing more from you in this fandom :)

To Jackfan2 – Your opposite day anecdote had _me_ smiling too! Thanks for sharing that. Weirdly enough, the flashback with the opposite day thing started out as a different fic I was working on (a tag to _Sex and Violence_)separate from _As He Breaks_. Eventually I just realized it would be better to just condense them :)

To Maz101 – The reason why I was nervous was the suicide attempts of Chapter 2; both from Sam in '05 and Dean during _As He Breaks_. I've outlined above my hesitations about people finding it might not be characteristic, so I really felt I was taking a leap. Thanks for the encouragement and the support!

To Miyo86 – I have a feeling we share a similar perception of semi-liberal religion. Thank you always for the incredibly well-thought-of and perceptive reviews. Aside from the religious aspect of this season's storyline, I think we also share another quirk: a fascination for Meat Loaf, haha! I couldn't help the reference, I guess. I thought: rockstar, bat out of hell, who else could it be, haha.

**IV. Future Project Update**_**: Heaven and Earth**_

Now that this is done (at last, haha) I should be able to resume working on _Open, Shut_ and _Heaven and Earth_ which I talked about at the end of my Afterword on _Steps Behind_. Here's a clip from the upcoming _Heaven and Earth _though, just to get it out there in case I don't ever get to continue that, haha. I think it stands semi-alone:

Author:Mirrordance

Title: **Heaven and Earth**

Summary:Sam may have given up the hunt in college, but not on doing other good things. He goes missing during peacebuilding fieldwork overseas. Dean _gets on a plane!_ to come after him.

" " "

**Heaven and Earth**

" " "

**Preview**

The United States

2003

" " "

Dean Winchester was running on empty; his body was beat to hell, his mind was all over the place, and the only things that tended to defy these – his will and the carefully-cultivated self-delusion that what he was doing for a living was remotely _sexy_ and _superheroic_ – was bleeding out of his soul.

He was lying in bed in some nameless motel in some nameless town being some nameless guy, just lying on a pile of thin sheets in his dirtied and bloodied clothes, when his cell phone started ringing.

_Geez, I just came from a shit-job here_, he thought fleetingly, even as his uncooperative hands groped in search of the phone from one of his pockets. He grunted in annoyance as he shifted around in an effort to find it.

_Where'd I put the damn thing?_

He slowed his search, hoping whoever was calling would just give up and call later. He just needed a couple hours to sleep, get his head back on straight or something, before going off to another job.

He found the phone, to his disappointment.

_Unidentified caller_.

He told himself he wasn't going to answer, but again, his damn hand was detached from his mind, apparently, and was already pressing the thing to his ear.

"Yeah, who's this?" he asked in a sigh, before he caught himself.

"Dean, it's me."

And just like that he was sitting up in bed.

"Oh, hey Sammy!" he exclaimed, "Hey, the number you're using didn't register."

"It's 'cos it's long-distance," Sam said, "So I can't stay on too long either."

"That's all right," Dean soothed, and it was perfectly true. Sam hasn't called him or answered his calls in an unbearably long time, after all.

_It's all right, as long as you call_...

"So where are you?" Dean asked, "Cancun or something? You know, like all those other college people?"

There was a beat, a blink-and-you'll-miss-it nuance that Dean still could have sensed from half-a-world away. Something was bothering Sam.

"I'm in Uganda, in a refugee camp."

"Doing some good there?" he whistled, even as he already knew the answer. You can take the hunt from the boy, but... the boy found trouble elsewhere for sure. Or maybe Sam was just made like that, earnest and helpful, and he just had to find his own way of doing good things. Their father's style was, after all, not really for everybody.

"Trying," Sam said, glumly. The reply was hideously loaded.

"Huh," Dean replied, thoughtfully, catching his younger brother's weary helplessness and disappointment easily. He let the line run long, gave Sam the time he needed to expound.

"I called you know," Sam stammered, "'Cos if I don't pick up or if you can't reach me, then you'd like, know why. That's all."

_A lie_, Dean knew, right off the bat. Sam's stopped calling him and stopped taking his calls for a good number of months by now, apparently not caring if Dean was worried about him. It took Dean several secret, sporadic trips to Stanford to convince himself that it wasn't because his kid brother was ill or hurt or missing or anything like that. He's just either forgotten about Dean in the rush that was college (_apparently_, though Dean wouldn't know), or decided to move on and away completely. For Sam to have called, though... something was going on.

Dean sifted through the bullshit; he knew Sam well enough to maneuver around it fairly well. Besides, he was the king of crap himself.

"You all right?" Dean asked, flat out.

"Yeah sure," Sam said shakily, and it was another lie, but Dean let it slip. It wasn't really a lie if you knew the other guy knew you were lying. And they knew each other inside and out. Dean took an uncharacteristically subtler approach.

"What's it like?"

"They're good people," Sam shared, "They have so little but you'd never know by how some of them share, and the kids, man. The kids are still smiling somehow."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, encouraging, wanting Sam to talk some more, just wanting to hear what he's been up to. The more Sam said, the better a picture Dean would have of his situation, and the more he'd be able to figure out whatever was plaguing the kid. Or maybe he just liked hearing him talk, but, _whatever._

"Yeah," Sam went on,"But there's lots of things going on with the rebellion, and the way some of these people are being treated... it kind of... kind of..."

Stanford was running out of words, and Dean figured if he can't save Sam from the ravages of the world, he could at least help out with that.

"Bad stuff, huh?" Dean filled in, wincing a little, feeling a little bit stupid. His younger brother was on a free ride in one of the best schools in the world and lending a hand-up in developing countries for crying out loud, and all he could think to say was something a four-year old could pluck from the air?

"Bad stuff," Sam agreed quietly, like a wistful echo, and there was something about his tone that reminded Dean of the wide-eyed, shaggy-haired kid he helped raise. His heart warmed.

"Well they're lucky they got you there," Dean said, meaning it completely, "I'm proud of you, Sammy. Dad would be too."

"He's with you?" Sam asked.

"Not right now," Dean replied, "I'll be meeting up with him soon. Pretty cool though, Sammy Winchester's saving the world over there."

Sam snorted, but then again it sounded like a choke too, the breath before the sob, "I gotta go, man. This is costing me an arm and a leg."

"Call collect next time," Dean said, scolding him mildly, "We don't have fake cards for nothing, for crying out loud."

Sam hung up, and Dean just sat there, smiling wistfully down at his mobile phone.

" " "

United States of America

2003

" " "

Dean Winchester had taken to watching CNN.

Which was in itself newsworthy, except the transition had felt so natural that international news kind of just slipped into his life somehow.

_That's where Sammy is_, _that's what Sammy's talking about, that's what he's worried about, that's what he has to face..._

When they were growing up, Dean had learned to be the expert at whatever Sam was doing in school. It was funny how geometry and algebra and everything else made more sense when he was helping out his brother with homework than it did when he himself was taking them up. But that was how it was: his life was, after all, the hunt, his father's approval, Sam's meals, and Sam's schoolwork. He didn't mind de-prioritizing his own school-standing; it meant more to Sam anyway. The only things he regretted about that whole arrangement was that Sam got so good that he went away, and that his father got so pissed he distanced himself from Dean too. That his life was, from being hunt plus dad plus Sam, now just... the hunt.

That was, until Sam called.

Sam called, and Dean now had the hunt and a little bit of Sam back. That meant, instead of meals and schoolwork, watching CNN and palming _Time_ magazines from doctor's offices and emergency waiting rooms made part of Dean's new life. He didn't mind.

Sam would call him from these strange places once in awhile, places he never thought either of them would ever see. The two of them had conversations he never thought he'd ever have, topics including "_emerging humanitarian crises"_ that he had now put on top of his pick-up-line arsenal as being one of the most effective ones _ever_.

Once in awhile, Sam would call while Dean was with their dad. If they were having downtime in a motel or somewhere outdoors, it was easy to excuse himself and walk out of earshot. John never asked why, not even the first time Dean had done it, but of course he knew it must have been Sam calling. Most of the time, Dean would go back from speaking with his brother and John would have that quiet hungry look in his eye, something his fiercer pride would never let him voice. Dean would catch what it meant, and be their voice instead.

"That was Sam," Dean would preamble, uselessly of course because John already knew that, "He's doing some charity up in..." wherever the hell Sam was. His brother was shipped around _everywhere, _every couple of weeks. John would grunt some form of unintelligible response, and then move forward with the job a little fiercer, the hunger in his eyes turning into a sharp glint, like he knew that somehow, the pieces were right where they were all supposed to be. It was how he almost always was after wordlessly dragging Dean to spy on Sam in Stanford in those first months without him; John was all pride and unstoppable determination.

Some of the calls though, would inevitably reach Dean while he was in the car with his father. It was awkward and painful, and his voice always sounded _louder_ in the confined space. But John wordlessly let him have the time he needed with his brother, because Dean would never, not for any circumstance, ignore an overseas call from Sam.

This was acid-tested that one time he was severely injured on a hunt, just _blood-and-guts-and-holy-crap-I-think-Dad's-praying_ kind of injured.

He woke up to his cell phone ringing from somewhere inside his jacket, hanging on a rack in the hospital room. He wanted to move and grab it, but it was too much to hope for, considering he couldn't even take a decent breath on his own.

His father was on a seat by his bed, and Dean was disarmed enough to have looked at him with a kind-of longing that he could not be bothered to disguise. John blinked at the utter nakedness of the expression which was something he had not seen on Dean in so long, not since he broke to his son that his mother was never coming back. He practically jumped off his seat, and shaking hands made a desperate search of that damn phone. John when determined was unstoppable; he needed to catch that call, because he wasn't going to let Dean down.

"Ha!" he exclaimed in uncharacteristically petty triumph. He pressed "Answer" to make sure they didn't lose the call and sat by Dean's arm on the bed. His son's green eyes were looking at him in that penetrating, searching way, as he placed the phone to Dean's ear, and lowered the oxygen mask that obscured half his son's face so that he could talk.

Dean cleared his throat, and his eyes cleared for the first time in days. "Helluva time to call, Sammy," he rasped.

From his father's wince, the "Are you hurt?!" exclamation of _Samantha_ went far beyond Dean's ears.

"Shut up and relax," Dean lied, "Just had a drink. Or two. Or three..."

It became an even longer and louder lecture, but then again that was probably the point in the first place, so Dean wouldn't have to talk so much. Dean's eyes went half-mast as he listened. Even against Sam's scolding, he looked at peace.

"Yeah, yeah, I love you too, bro," Dean mumbled, chuckling a little. He grimaced at the pain that ran through his body, and John watched as he bit at his lip to keep from hissing. His eyes went hazy and half-absent after that.

"You're unbelievable!" Sam snapped, "I'll call you when you're sober."

Sam hung up. John put the phone down on the nightstand by his son's head. He barely caught Dean's quiet "Thanks, dad," as he put the oxygen mask back over his son's mouth and nose. But Dean's eyes were laser-green in that illuminated, glowing gratitude. There was no other green like that in the world.

To be (possibly) continued...

**Thanks for reading through the rambling and 'til the next post!!! **


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